The King and I
by Deckenpuppel
Summary: "It's a shame Julius found you first. We coulda owned this town." Was Benjamin King, the leader of the Vice Kings telling the truth when he uttered those words? Proceed if you want to find out.
1. Chapter 1 - The Streets of Stilwater

**Disclaimer:** _Special thanks go out to the Third Street Authors for general support, as well as to LynGuerra for pushing me over the edge when it came to starting this project._

* * *

 **Chapter 1 — The Streets of Stilwater**

 **H** e was wandering aimlessly, hands buried deep within the pockets of his patched-up leather jacket, just one more lost soul that haunted the streets of Saints Row that night. The air was slowly cooling after a hot day, and the patchy net of still working streetlights was bathing everything in a dim and shady-looking twilight. The sidewalks and alleys were littered with toppled trashcans and their contents. Hookers, hobos, hustlers and Brown Beggar pilgrims all went about their daily businesses. Strangely enough, Morgan was considering himself in good company amidst them. He was in a mood, and between all the other failed existences, his own shattered dreams somehow seemed less significant. On nine out of ten days, he was able to suppress and hide those feelings, and looking the way that he did — tall, athletic and handsome with his clean-shaven head and regularly trimmed stubble — people usually did not picture him as being of the depressed kind. Son to a Caucasian father and an African American mother, Morgan could have easily passed for some home-rooted football star, walking the streets of his childhood because of solidarity rather than necessity. Unfortunately, today was one of those days were all the penned up frustration and bitterness had risen to the surface to down him in a torrent of suffocating misery, and no amount of suppressing or distracting himself had been able to silence the gnawing voice that ate away at his soul.

It had been awfully nice of his boss at the Sea Roses to give him the night off. Between bartending, his day shift as a taxi driver and the occasional gig as a bouncer for one of the nearby clubs, Morgan sure could use the breather, but how exactly a walk around the Row was supposed to make him feel better about himself was beyond him.

"Just get out there," Hubert had said, stuffing a crumbled twenty into his hands. "Get some air, get wasted, get laid; whatever gets that cranky streak out of your system, you hear me?"

Easier said than done, Morgan thought gloomily. At the same time, the thought of returning to his grandfather's now empty house, to some cheap beer and another session of meaningless TV held no allure either, and so he walked on, searching for something — for anything really that would somehow validate his continued existence. On the Row, that pretty much meant looking for a needle in a haystack these days.

He was walking down 5th Street, minding his own business, when trouble finally found him. First, he was merely jumped by some hustler, trying to sell him some obviously either fake or stolen watches. Morgan managed to blow the guy off by simply ignoring his sale pitch, and the street vendor quickly lost interest. It was not as if Morgan could have afforded even the peddling price that the guy was asking for.

Past the hustler, he walked right into the arms of a prostitute. "Hey baby," she cooed, hips swaying suggestively as she moved into his path. "I can show you a good time."

Morgan stopped and looked her over. Her eyes were dull, the seductive smile charming but too rehearsed to fool him. She did have a nice figure, though, and to his surprise Morgan found that he particularly liked her curly black hair. Not that it would have made much of a difference. His body was reacting to her advances, letting him know that it had been too long and this woman just might have been the right kind of trouble for him today. He was about to turn on his charm and start the sweet-talk when a sudden, high-pitched curse further down the street caused both him and the girl to forget their pending business for a second. Morgan's onsetting smile died on his lips when he caught the flashes of bright yellow.

Like most people living on the Row, Morgan had built up a habit of avoiding flashy colors. Brown, gray, black and maybe a pair of jeans in a faded blue, that was about the pinnacle of what his wardrobe had to offer. Everything going beyond that only served to draw unwanted attention to yourself in an environment like this, and at worst got you mistaken for something you weren't. So when Morgan saw the group of young men all in yellow, he knew exactly who he was dealing with.

Vice Kings. Gangbangers belonging to one of Stilwater's most notorious street gangs. With that, all his thoughts about pleasant company vanished into thin air.

The Vice Kings moved off the street and into one of the alleyways, continuing their talk around the corner. They still didn't sound happy, and Morgan could hear how somebody began to shake what sounded like a can of spray paint. That was when the squad dressed in blue appeared, and moved into the alley as well. They were from a rivaling gang, and the condescension and hostility that underlined the ensuing conversation made it ample clear that things were about to get physical.

Morgan should have left there and then, yet for some reason he found that he couldn't. He was mesmerized. Even when things ran their course and the punches started flying, he still didn't move. One the blue gangers came darted around the corner and raced up the sidewalk, straight to where Morgan was still standing next to the skimpily clad woman. A Vice King followed in pursuit, but quickly fell behind, resorting to throwing the can of spray paint he was still carrying. The projectile hit the runner squarely in the back of the head, almost succeeding in toppling him over, but the Roller righted himself at the last moment and sped on towards his car further down the street.

From the opposite direction, the sound of howling engines approached. A red convertible screeched to a standstill right next to the alleyway, and with it a third faction entered the conflict and at once carried it to a hole new level. "Hector says Buenas noches... " said the masked gunner on the passenger seat even as the and his fellow brandished their automatic weapons. The next second, the bullets started flying. Everything descended into chaos.

The very real threat to his life was finally enough to shock Morgan out of his revelry. Beside him, the hooker screamed in terror and fled. She ran down the sidewalk as far as her heels could carry her, only to be shoved to the ground by the blue-clad Roller who was returning to the scene of the fight bearing a fully loaded assault rifle. Not intending to be caught in the crossfire, Morgan kept close to the ground and hurried across the street, screams and gunshots ringing in his ears with every step. Another rifle chimed in, just as the car's engine growled to life again. Morgan risked a glance over his shoulder, turning just in time to see the driver getting shot in the head and the car turning out of control, coming at him with its bloodstained windshield like some rabid animal baying for his blood. With fear and desperation surging through his veins, he ran on and — at the last moment — leapt. The car missed him by mere inches, and crashed into the next house with the murderous sound of shattering glass and deforming metal. Shards and engine parts were blown in every direction, and flames surged up within the car's crushed front, quickly spreading all around as leaking fuel ignited.

One of the car's passengers had been tossed out of it during the crash, and was writhing half-stunned upon the burning ground. He did not need to suffer long. The blue rifleman strode up to the wreckage and executed the survivor with almost casual disinterest. A disregard for human life he would not have the chance of over regretting, as he was so absorbed in dealing with the car and its passengers that he did not notice the Vice King that snuck up on him and in turn executed him with a point-blank shot to the back of the head. Blood and brain matter were sprayed all over the place. The echo of the shot hung in the air for a moment, then faded slowly into nothingness, followed by silence. The fight was over.

Morgan groaned. His heart was beating so fast in his chest he thought it was about to burst. Gasping for air, he rolled unto his back. There wasn't a part of his body that was not threatening him with the promise of excruciating pain. He was covered in minor cuts and bruises, especially where his palms had been cut to shreds trying to break his fall. They were bleeding profusely, and burned like fire.

None of that mattered much to Morgan, however, as he was finding himself starring down the wrong end of the barrel of a gun. Instinctively, he tried to back away from the threat, but the shiny handcannon followed after him, maintaining its firm aim on his head. I don't want to die, he thought, desperation taking over. He hadn't done anything wrong, and still, as he gazed into the weapon's barrel, Morgan somehow knew that he was starring into the emptiness of the abyss, and in that moment even his pitiful life, with all the emptiness and disappointment seemed unbearably sweet.

"Wrong time, wrong place, dawg," came the voice of the Vice King, and Morgan gritted his teeth. As if that was sufficient reason for a person to die. Suddenly he blinked. Wait a minute, he thought, trying to find through the adrenalin-fulled haze clouding his addled mind. He knew that voice!

For the first time, he looked past the gun and on to the person actually holding it, and as his eyes lit up in recognition, the name came bursting over his lips. "Darnell!" he cried, throwing up his hands in defense. "Wait man! It's me, Morgan. Morgan Barnes! From high school, remember?"

The ganger hesitated, his eyes narrowing suspiciously as he stared down at his prey. Then he frowned and tilted his head, and Morgan got the feeling that Darnell too was taking a good look at him for the first time. Eventually, Darnell chuckled gloatingly.

"Morgan motherfucking Barnes, eh? Damn dawg. Been a long time."

"Yeah," Morgan stammered. The fact that Darnell had not lowered the gun yet worried him. He tried to rise slowly, but instantly Darnell moved the gun closer to his head, sending an all too clear message. Morgan gulped. "Please man, come on. You don't have to do this."

Darnell flinched at that. "You sure about that?" he asked, but could not entirely hide his grin. "Witnesses are always bad news."

The bastard was playing with him, thought Morgan. Darnell was getting off on the power trip of holding another man's life in his hands. Despite being one wrong move away from catching a bullet, Morgan felt irritation replacing a little bit of the paralyzing fear that was festering in his guts. Part of him would have liked nothing better than to stand up and take that gun away from Darnell; to show him what being helpless and afraid felt like.

Again, fate had other plans for him. For exactly in that moment, Morgan noticed how a white guy in a short-sleeved purple shirt snuck up on Darnell, a massive revolver reflecting the light of the city lights. Morgan didn't even think before he acted. He cried out, shouting a warning and pointing past Darnell at the gunman.

Darnell instantly swung around. He was fast, too, but the newcomer still had the drop on him and fired first. Darnell was hit in the shoulder and went down with a cry, but it didn't stop him from squeezing a few shots off himself. The shots went far and wide, but they did suffice to force Darnell's assailant to take cover rather than to place another well-aimed shot. Grunting against the pain, Darnell continued to shoot, sending four more bullets into the corner behind which cowboy with the revolver had taken cover. The shots were answered by loud swearing, followed by resounding footsteps that quickly moved away from them.

Morgan surged to his feet and to Darnell's side. Cowering down beside him, he looked him over. He wasn't really an expert on any of these things, and there was blood everywhere, but to Morgan it looked like a clean through-and-through, and that was a good thing, right? Still, it was quite obvious that without medical attention, Darnell was still in serious danger.

Darnell, for his part, was still conscious, but he had paled considerably and his movements had grown sluggish. "We got to take you to the hospital," said Morgan. "You're bleeding out."

Darnell shook his head. "No cops, no hospitals," he wheezed. "Jus' take me to Sunnyvale. They'll patch me up good there."

Just for a second, Morgan felt the urge to point out that he had no reason to do anything for Darnell. he had just saved him getting shot to death, all the while not even being sure whether Darnell would have actually spared his life if the guy in purple hadn't showed up. Now he was asking him to take another risk and drive him all the way into the heart of the Vice King's territory? Morgan couldn't think of a single reason why he should have. And still. Even while thinking these thoughts, a plan already began to form in Morgan's mind. Not knowing why exactly, Morgan sighed, and began to put it into motion.

The first thing he needed was a car. Luckily for him, he knew just where to get the keys for one. With that in mind, he hurried over to the now headless blue rifleman that Darnell had put down. Rummaging through the man's pockets, he eventually found what he was looking for; the keys to the car Morgan had spotted down the street earlier. He also found a little bit of cash, a fully loaded handgun, and of course the half-empty assault rifle that he corpse had dropped. Morgan grabbed it all. He had no intention of using them, and other than maybe Kirby at Friendly Fire, he sure as hell didn't know anyone he would be able to sell boosted guns to, but the thought of just letting these things lying around on the street just didn't sit well with him.

Keys in hand and the assault rifle looped over his shoulder, he sprinted down the street towards the blue sedan, stopping only on a hunch to pick up the can of yellow spray paint that lay abandoned on the sidewalk. Within the car, he also happened to find an old first aid kit, whose bandages Morgan immediately put to good use. After that, he hauled Darnell to his feet and helped him into the car, stored away the guns, and after taking a few more desperate precautions, began the dubious trip towards Shivington.


	2. Chapter 2 - Decisions

**Chapter 2 - Decisions**

 **T** he next morning started out like any other. Morgan awoke from a deep, exhausted slumber to the annoyingly energetic voice of some radio host blaring into his ears. Still half asleep, he stood up and shambled into the bathroom. He didn't even realize that he was still partly dressed. Only when he stepped in front of the sink and spotted the blood on his hands and clothing, did the events of the previous night come flooding back into his consciousness: The early night off, the walk around the Row, the shootout, and everything that followed it.

Morgan stared at his hands for a long time, turning them over and over again as he tried to get into his head that these things really happened and hadn't just been part of some crazy dream. It was weird. Even living in a neighborhood as dangerous as the Row, he had always been confident that he would somehow manage to get away unscathed. Things like this simply weren't supposed to happen to him. Shaking his head, he began to take off his clothes.

Driving into the very heart of the Vice Kings' territory in a stolen Rollerz car had made Morgan nervous to a point where he had felt physically sick. Spraying big yellow "V"s and "K"s onto its sides, roof and hood had been the only thing he could think of to increase his odds of not getting shot, but a single trigger-happy banger suspecting a poorly concealed trap or simply not bothering to look closely, and he still would end up dead.

The high-rises of the projects rose before his eyes like dark towers against the glow of the distant arena, forming a looming fortress of decaying shadows that seemed intent on turning him away. The glow of the street lights that flashed by in a slumberous rhythm kept pulling at his concentration, fighting with the last traces of adrenaline that kept coursing through his body. He was speeding, following Darnell's barely coherent directions, sincerely hoping that whoever was watching would recognize the urgency of the situation rather than feeling threatened by it. His eyes were constantly shifting around, roaming off the road in hopes of spotting whatever it was Darnell was trying to get to. Luckily for himself, this was something he was used to as a part-time taxi driver, and his driving didn't suffer for it.

Eventually, Darnell made him pull up next to one of the many apartment towers that dominated the neighborhood. After a brief argument, Morgen sounded the horn, then went straight back to praying. The Vice Kings came into view at once. A couple of them seemed to appear instantly, rising out of previously unseen hiding places, guns drawn and firmly pointed at the unfamiliar vehicle. Others appeared with some delay, pouring out of the building's main entrance. Before long, Morgan and Darnell were surrounded by a dozen armed people.

Morgan licked his dry lips and glanced over to his injured passenger. Darnell simply looked back at him, making no indication of stepping out of the car first. Cursing under his breath, Morgan wondered not for the first time that night whether saving his childhood friend had been the right move to make.

 _Come on, man! You can do this_ , he said to himself. _You are dealing with this kind of people all the time at the club. It doesn't matter that they all have guns drawn on you. Just do your thing_.

He got out, hands raised above his head. As expected, more than half the barrels immediately switched to aiming at his head. Morgan put on his most confident smile.

"Evening, folks. Don't shoot, I'm not the enemy. Merely returning something that belongs to you."

He didn't receive any answers. But the Vice Kings also didn't shoot him yet, which — in Morgan's eyes — was clearly a win. Forcing himself to walk slowly, he walked around to the other side of the car.

"I have Darnell with me," he explained. "He is injured and needs help. I am going to open the door now and help him out, okay? Don't shoot!"

At the mentioning of Darnell's name, several of the Vks exchanged surprised glances. It looked as if the Kings hadn't heard about the shootout yet. Then again, how should they have. Aside from Darnell, all their people who were involved were dead.

Morgan opened the passenger door and helped Darnell to his feet. A murmur travelled through the gang members. The gunshot wound was simply too obvious to ignore. Darnell straightened himself to his full height and suppressed a groan when pain lanced through his body.

"Don't jus' stand there, niggers!" he yelled. "Come on, help a brotha out."

Two of the Vice kings rushed forward at that, holstering their guns taking over Darnell's support from Morgan. He respectfully stepped aside and allowed them to proceed. Darnell railed and cursed when he was led away. He didn't say thank you, nor so much as deigned to even look at Morgan. He hadn't changed at all since the last time Morgan had seen him. With a sigh, he turned away.

He was about to enter the car, when a strong hand grabbed him by the shoulder. "Not so fast, _friend_ ," came an uncouth voice. "Rooch wants t' see ya."

Morgan sighed again. He knew he didn't have a choice.

As it turned out, Rooch was something like a lieutenant within the Vice Kings, and the one tasked with taking over the Row. He was a big and brutish man, with hostile small eyes and chromed teeth grills. Morgan disliked him instantly. He was a playbook bully, never shy of drawing attention to the massive golden handcannon tugged into his baggy pants. He also smelled of too much cheap aftershave. With Darnell busy being patched up, Rooch had a lot of questions when it came to the shootout. He wanted to know how it came about and who started it, how many people had been on each side and how they had been armed. Lastly, he inquired about Morgan's part in it all, and how it came to pass that Morgan ended up driving Darnell all the way to Shivington in boosted Roller wheels.

Morgan answered the questions to the best of his abilities. He had nothing to hide, and more importantly, he didn't want to give Rooch an excuse to get physical with him. But when asked why he had warned Darnell and risked as much as he did to save him, Morgan found that he couldn't give an answer. He didn't understand it himself. He mused that it might have something to do with old friendships dying hard, but even as he uttered the words, he realized that they didn't ring true.

Rooch seemed satisfied with his answer, though, and shortly afterwards, he was allowed to leave as well as tasked with taking 'that blue piece of junk' out of Rooch's neighborhood. He was only too eager to comply. Relieved not having to walk all the way home and happy still to be alive, Morgan had not wasted another second, and had driven off as fast as he could. He had been bone-weary by that time, and the drive back passed in a haze. He didn't even remember getting in through the front door...

Back in present, Morgan's eyes widened in terror. With one panicked leap he was out of the bathroom and on his way down the stairs. Darting out of the front door in nothing more than his underwear, he threw open the garage door and peered inside.

It was empty.

"Thank god," he whispered breathlessly, sighing in relief. The last thing he would have needed was a Rollerz car with Vice King markings waiting to be discovered at his place. Luckily, even his deadly tired self had had more sense than that.

He was about to get back into the house when the sound of bright giggling caused him to turn around. On the other side of the street, two women were ogling him as they casually strode by. Their playful smiles confused Morgan, until he realized that he was standing half-naked in broad daylight. He flushed a little, but wasn't about to explode into a myriad of embarrassed sounds and motions like other people maybe would have. He was too confident of his body for that. The girls were easy on the eyes and obviously enjoying the view of his tell-toned dark muscles as well, so instead of making a complete fool of himself, Morgan straightened his back, put his hands to his hips and flashed them a smile as dazzling as he could manage. The girls snickered and laughed again, their eyes sparkling with a mixture of good humor and that certain spark of naughty interest. One of them even waved shyly and bit her lip. Morgan waved back, allowing himself to enjoy the moment as long as it lasted. When they were gone, he closed the garage and headed back inside.

As soon as he had entered the building, he felt how the joy slowly leaked out of him. His smile withered away, thinning first into bittersweet- and then nothingness. He hadn't just pretended to enjoy the wordless flirt with the girls, but these days the old place seemed to have a life on its own, intend on not allowing him to find happiness again. There was just too much here that reminded him of the past, things that kept pulling at him with the heavy, ghostly claws of regret and anguish. With every footstep, with every upturned picture or vacant room that Morgan passed, the joy faded away until it was gone, lost between the jagged shards of memories that were now soaked in poison. Walking past the empty nursery was especially hard on him, and he had long lost the strength to bear looking inside. His steps quickened, and he almost fled upstairs into the shower. When the water hit his face, it was almost in time to deny that his eyes had begun to glisten with tears. Sadly, he knew better.

* * *

 **H** e had almost convinced himself that he would be able to go on with life like nothing had happened when Darnell suddenly stood in front of him. It was two days later, and Morgan was standing behind the counter of the Sea Roses, when the Vice Kings entered. With the Sea Roses being on the edge of Shivington itself, seeing their kind around certainly wasn't unusual, but in the two years Morgan had worked here, he could count the instances of VKs actually coming inside of the Roses on one hand. Most of those times it had ended with trouble. Hubert, the owner, wasn't exactly a big fan, but neither was he uptight or a particular zealous upholder of moral standards. He just didn't seem to want anything to do with the VKs, and through means Morgan had no knowledge of, heavyset Hubert had somehow managed to broker some sort of deal that kept the Kings clear of his establishment. So when Darnell strode in, his arm in a sling and flanked by two more brothers flying the same colors, the look Morgan got from Hubert said more than a thousand words. The one that followed when the VKs ignored Hubert and went straight for Morgan said infinitely more.

"We gotta talk, dawg," began Darnell. "In private. Take a break or somethin'."

Morgan chagrined and put his fists on the counter. Darnell took the whole being a king thing way too seriously, and it was beginning to piss Morgan off. Funny, how merely two days ago, the very sight of a Vice King had sufficed to scare him.

"Look man," he said, trying to remain civil. "You can't just come in here and — "

"I said take a fuckin' break," Darnell repeated, more forcefully. "Don't be makin' this difficult on yourself, you hear me boy?"

Morgan flinched. "I'm not your boy, Darnell. But fine, I am coming."

For the first time, Darnell actually smiled. It was a condescending and arrogant cruel twist to his broad face, but there it was.

"That's my boy."

"Is there a problem here?"

Hubert had silently moved behind the counter, right to the spot where Morgan knew the boss had stashed his sawed-off shotgun. He was touched that Hubert would go that far on his account, but even though he hated Darnell's guts at the moment, he wasn't quite insane enough yet to let his turn into some sort of bloodbath.

"No, boss. No problem," he said. "Just an old school-buddy of mine wanting a word. Can I take five?"

Hubert gave him a long, imploring look, but eventually nodded. "Make it quick."

Morgan led the three Vice Kings outside. The air was pleasantly cool, but the atmosphere dreary. Even by day, the prospects looked rather depressing and dull, like grey teeth in some giant's ruined mouth, all worn and dirty by all the lives they had chewed up over the years. At night, it was even worse, and only the few lights that shone behind the windows kept the place from looking utterly rundown and abandoned. Morgan sighed and pushed his hands into his jacket.

"So what's this about?"

"Geez, nigger; what's with the hate? Just chill. I'm here to do ya a favor."

"A favor?" Morgan repeated sceptically. "And what might have brought you to such an act of selfless generosity?"

Darnell smiled again. "Don't you be gettin' cute with me, Barnes. Jus' because I'm not writing you no friggin loveletters does not mean I do not appreciate what ya did for me on the Row. As it is, I owe ya black ass big time, and I can't have that. So here it is."

He reached into his pockets and produced a small bundle of bills which he offered to Morgan. Morgan eyeballed the neatly folded tens and twenties, but made no move to take them. About two-hundred dollars, he guessed, give or take.

"I don't want you money."

"You always were some proud motherfucker," Darnell observed. "But ya'll take this anyways. Like I said, I don't wanna owe ya nothin'. So you're going to take my money an' do somethin' nice for yaself or Markayla or whatever." When Morgan still did not seem convinced, he added. "Come on, man. Don't disrespect me, especially not before my boys. I worked hard for this cash, too, and you would not be workin' in a place like this if you didn't need the money. So fuckin' take it already."

Bringing up Markayla's name certainly didn't earn Darnell any extra points in Morgan's book, though in all fairness, it was unlikely Darnell knew they were no longer together. Still, he had a point. Morgan did not want him to owe him anything either. He wanted to be done with it, nothing more. Reluctantly, he finally accepted and took the cash. Darnell was pleased.

"Mighty glad ya haven't forgotten how to be reasonable, dawg. Now that that shit's out of the way, we can talk about why I'm really here."

Morgan raised an eye-brow. "I thought we would be good now. What else is there?"

"More of the same, really. I want to do you **another** favor."

"Gee, thanks man, but I think I cannot take any more of your kindness in one day."

"Jus' shut up and listen, punk. Like I said, I don't like owing people. That's what de money is for, and because I knew I could get you to take it, so were even. With this other thing, you can say no if you want, though it be fuckin' dumb of ya to do so, and you do not get this chance because of me owing ya, but because ya earn'd it. Long story short. We want you to join the Vice Kings."

 _Oh, hell no._ "What!?" spluttered it over Morgan's lips. "You got to be kidding me?"

Darnell shook his head. "That's nothin' we joke about. What you did the other night took guts. We can always use people like that. And with the thing in the Row jus' gettin' started, havin' a local boy on scene wouldn't hurt either."

Morgan was stunned. The proposal caught him completely off guard. He could have imagined much, but this? It didn't make any sense. How could Darnell even think that there was any chance he would agree to something like that?

"Listen, man," he mumbled, already preparing himself for the beatdown that was doubtlessly coming his way. "I'll really appreciate the — "

He was cut off when Darnell slapped him straight in the face. It was a solid smack, and even though it didn't really hurt, the sting of humiliation alone was enough to send Morgan over the edge. Snarling, he tried to lunge at Darnell, but his two cronies had paid attention, and intercepted him before he could inflict any damage, pushing him back against the wall.

"Ya' stupid son of a bitch!" Darnell shouted. he got in close, and began to prod Morgan's chest with his finger. "Don't you dare, Nigger! Don't you dare to throw this back in my face without even thinkin' about it! You and ya fuckin' arrogance. It was the same thing back in high school. With that arm-candy of yours on one side and the sport-scholarship loomin' on the horizon, you thought you was so much better than the rest of us. Newsflash, dawg, they gave that scholarship to some pretty white boy with rich parents, and you're some asswhiping bartender and who knows what else. It's about damn time ya head out of ya ass and start thinkin' straight."

The prodding stopped, and Darnell stepped away, his anger exhausted for the time being. he nodded at the other two VKs, and they backed down, releasing Morgan from their grip.

"Think about'id, man. Really think about'id," Darnell repeated, his voice strangely soft, almost pleading in tone. He handed Morgan a piece of paper with a number scribbled upon it. "Ya can call when ya've made up ya mind."

With that, Darnell turned and went off, his two cronies trailing after him leaving Morgan standing alone and somewhat confused at the corner of the block. He slumped back against the wall and sighed. Darnell's outburst had stirred up old memories. It hadn't been part of his usual pseudo-macho bullshit. It had felt genuine, like anger and pain that Darnell had held penned up for a long time. In that moment, Morgan felt like he actually recognized the person behind Darnell's tough act.

Thinking back, he had to admit that he never much bothered to stop and think what his former friend must have felt like during high school. Almost inseparable in their younger years, the two of them had quickly grown distant and apart during that time. Morgan had excelled at everything connected to school, and his plans had been big. He dreamt of going to college, playing football and actually making something of himself. With the youthful sense of self-absorption that teenagers often displayed, he had without thinking dumped all the blame for their drifting apart unto Darnell. It had all seemed so obvious to his younger self. Darnell was the one who was falling behind, who tried to keep him back, who picked fights and always wanted to stay in the old neighborhood. He hadn't grown the same way Morgan had — or at least not the way Morgan had convinced himself to think he had. When Darnell had started to fall in with the "wrong" crowd, Morgan had merely taken it as more proof that he wasn't the one to blame.

Thoughts like this stayed with him for the rest of the night. They followed him home and robbed him of his sleep, haunting him. Could it have looked to Darnell as if he was abandoning him? Morgan had never thought of it like that, but lying sleepless on his side of the bed, he felt the sting of guilt seeping into his heart. It didn't excuse all the things Darnell had done Morgan believed that each and every human being was responsible for his or her own actions, but that — as he was forced to admit — included him as well, and he might not have done the best job of taking care of their friendship. With the realization came regret, but Morgan indulged it only for a moment, before shrugging it off. Just one more disappointment to add to the pile, he thought gloomily.

Admitting to that didn't mean, however, that Darnell was also right about the second thing. Claiming that Morgan had not joined the VKs because of arrogance — that was just twisted! As if he needed to justify himself for not joining a street gang! He had had a future he didn't want to throw away, parents that loved and cared for him, and a beautiful girlfriend who had made it very clear that she would not be dating a gangbanger. Of course he hadn't joined the Vice Kings! They did have nothing to offer him. He was taking his own path, rather than becoming part of the latest batch of disgruntled youths to grease the bonegrinder of gang life with their blood.

Still, he hadn't been looking down on those who chose to join. He had grown up with the gangs, and knew that it wasn't all black and white, that for some becoming a gangster was their only shot of escaping the poverty and misery of the projects, even if it was at a price. So no, it hadn't been arrogance that stopped him. It just so happened that Morgan had had opportunities most of the other kids hadn't: a possibly way out that didn't include the threat of eating a bullet.

He looked out of the window, and a deep sense of despair came over him. "What's stopping you now?" came a dark voice from within. The question hit him like a punch in the gut. He didn't have an answer.

* * *

 **T** he restless night eventually gave way to an unpleasant morning. Morgan awoke with a mind-numbing weariness in his bones, if anything more tired than the night before. Even his usual cure of saturating his intestines with the meanest, blackest brew he was able to cook up proved powerless against this special kind of weariness. Already, he could feel the onsetting throbbing of a terrible headache.

The day only got worse from there. The taxi shift was a nightmare. Traffic was particularly bad that day, and as if that paired with sleep deprivation wasn't enough, Morgan additionally attracted only the most impolite, irritating or outright insulting passengers that day. In all his days as a taxi driver combined, he hadn't heard as many complaints about his driving style or fares than he did that day. Granted, he wasn't exactly showing his A game that day, but that alone was no explanation for the insufferable temper of his passengers.

Darnell and the Vice Kings were never far from his mind, but in his addled state, he wasn't making any progress in the matter. He wasn't going to accept it. Of course he wasn't. It would have been crazy. He wasn't a criminal, and he didn't want to be one. In a way, It would be like giving up, like accepting that he could not make it by playing by the rules, to admit that he was failure. Morgan refused to accept that. He might have been miserable, but at least he was not preying on other people. Within that knowledge lay a humble form of pride.

And yet…

The matter should have been settled with that, but for some reason his thoughts kept returning to Darnell's offer again and again, running in circles. It was the excitement, he decided after a while, the adrenaline he had experienced when the violent gang life had come crashing into his own pathetic existence. The fear had been overpowering and terrifying, but the tremendous elation that followed it had been the greatest feeling that Morgan could remember ever experiencing. It was intoxicating, and at the same time utterly foolish. He had gotten one small taste of the violent, dangerous life governed by the streets, and by nothing but sheer luck had managed to get away unscathed. Yet all his brain seemed to remember was the excitement, and the celebration of life when the danger had finally passed, as if having his life threatened somehow increased its value.

Morgan braved these thoughts, as well as the remaining number of obnoxious passengers with the numb stoicism of a man too tired to care. When his shift was finally over, he could not remember hearing a single kind word that day. Once again, he was not only bone weary, but also depressed, and all he wanted was for the day to end.

Sadly, it wasn't meant to be. Morgan was not being expected at the Sea Roses that night, but rather than having a free evening to rest up, he had agreed to a bouncer gig down in Rebadeux. So instead of settling down after his shift, he took his second shower that day, put on his one good shirt and pants, and called in a favor from the night shift to catch a ride to the redlight district.

"The Hell Hole" was one of the few clubs in Rebadeux that wasn't in fact a strip-club. More like a poor man's Dante's Inferno with a black and red decor, the Hole had somehow managed to become a rather popular place to be among the local party scene — despite, or maybe because of its misleading name given the proximity to all the adult entertainment establishments nearby. Usually, the crowd of the Hole didn't give Morgan much trouble for the most part. His regular trips to the gym, broad shoulders and stern stare made sure of that. Yet in the spirit of the day, things just kept piling up. Whether it were previously banned trouble-makers trying to sneak in, underaged girls with fake IDs begging for admittance, or a drunkenly dim-witted hen party convinced they had booked the club for the night; Morgan got to deal with all of it. He hardly got a moment's rest in between these scenes, and all the arguments and disrespectful attitude he was getting were continuing to deplete his batteries fast. He was so sick of it all.

He had barely thought that thought when a high-pitched, cheerful voice cried out his name. Morgan turned, and cursed. _Please, no. Not him._

Brandon Wash was above all things a hipster, a spoiled brat, and a spineless punk. Way too full of himself, he pale youngster with his flamboyant shirts and a ridiculous, spiky haircut was the bane of all the employees at the Hell Hole. All by himself, nobody would have taken the haggard blabbermouth seriously enough to be truly bothered, since it was clear to everybody that he was all talk. The problem was that Brandon happened to be friends with the owner's Daughter, and through daddy's little girl, Brandon's talk had gotten more than one person fired after they had crossed him in some manner. In fact, that was how Morgan had been able to get the job in the first place. Something, he didn't like to be reminded about.

Brandon moved purposefully to the top of the line, a couple of other guys in tow. "Yo, Morgan my man!" he cried, his arms flailing about him in a series of wild gestures. "What's up!? Listen, Kimmy is already waiting for me inside. You can just wave us through, right?"

It was a stone-cold lie, and they both knew it. Morgan had lent a hand opening the place up that night, and since then he had been checking the entrance. Kimmy had not come through yet, and while it was possible she had gotten a key to the backdoor, Morgan highly doubted she would have used it. Kimmy loved the attention she was getting whenever she bypassed the line.

"Sure Brandon," answered Morgan, hiding his annoyance behind a strained smile. "Who are your friends?"

"Oh, Kimmy is waiting for them too. We met them at a private party a couple of days ago. They're cool." He turned and smiled at the group. "We are going to par-tey tonight, right boys?"

The men cheered their approval and Morgan gave them a brief lookover. Half of them were either already pretty drunk or seriously stoned. He sighed. "Looks like your friends started the party pretty early. You know the rules, Brandon. If you want to be drunk in the Hole, you have at the very least get there with booze bought on the inside."

"Wow, easy bigguy! Now who said anything about anybody being drunk? All I see is a couple of guys looking to have a good time, who might or might not have had a beer before coming here. There is no harm in that, is there? I am sure Kimmy would hate to wait for us longer than necessary, and we do all want to keep our princess happy, am I right?"

Morgan rolled his eyes. He was about to give in. He didn't like to get threatened, least of all by a punk like Brandon, but he couldn't afford to lose this job, infrequent as it might have been, and while he had punched Brandon mentally for each and every stupid word that had come out of his mouth, Morgan simply lacked the patience and energy today to deal with the reality of Brandon's bullshit.

As it turned out, one of Brandon's buddies had even less patience than Morgan. "Yo, B.," he complained with a noticeable slur to his voice. "I thought you had this shit covered? Why is that nigger giving you trouble?"

Morgan's eyes flared open and singled in on the oblivious drunkard. That little shit had not just said that? He was seeing red and together with all the penned up frustration from the day he was having, the thought of taking it all out on some drunk bitch who had it coming was mighty appealing. Yet Morgan held back. It just wasn't worth it, he kept telling himself, even if it meant swallowing his pride. The kid probably didn't mean it, and he was wasted. Then there was Brandon, as well as the cops who would certainly come running if he started beating up white boys in front of the club. Morgan had enough shit going on as it was. He couldn't afford pride, just as he couldn't afford losing this job.

So he swallowed the angry outburst what was aching to break loose and waited for common sense and political correctness to deescalate the situation somewhat. Surely Brandon or some of the people waiting in line would take offense of the insult as well and put the boy in his place without Morgan having to lift a finger.

But nothing of the sort happened. The people in line were all engaged in their own private conversations, and Morgan did not enter their world until he was about to admit them, so nobody had really paid attention to what has been said. Brandon's other friends apparently did not think anything by it, and Brandon himself was more concerned with being perceived as uncool or uninfluential than political correctness. He turned half-way around and laughed excessively at the remark, waving the issue off. "This nigger and giving me trouble? Nah, don't worry fellas! I totally got his. Just have to make myself understood, that's all."

He turned back around "Are we getting in now, or what? As you can see, my boys here are getting kind of impatient."

The scene was so surreal that Morgan was stunned for a moment. "What did you just call me?" he asked. At first, he was really more confused than angry, but the balance quickly shifted in anger's favor, and hot rage flooded his veins, screaming for him not to let that kind of insult stand. He clenched his fists.

Brandon, meanwhile, finally realized what he had done. "Oh," he gasped, with about as much sense of shame as if somebody had just told him he didn't close the door behind him. "Sorry."

This time, Morgan didn't swallow what he was thinking. "You're sorry? I'm afraid that isn't going to cut it!"

Instead of feeling cowed or intimidated, Brandon got angry himself. "What's your fucking problem? I said I was sorry. You're just some dead-beat doorman, you must be getting shit like this all the time. So deal with it, and chill, all right?"

Morgan blinked. Something inside of him snapped in that moment, but to his own surprise, it wasn't more rage that flooded his system, but an all encompassing sense of world-weariness and disarming despair. The world, his life, it all just didn't make any sense any more. He felt so invisible and powerless, and at the same time so humiliated that he was ashamed of being who he was. To be denied something as fundamental to being human as the right to be hurt or angry - it just unmanned him.

More than that, he realized with depressingly sharp clarity that in fact — as far as the world was concerned — he was nothing really. Less than nobody. The magic word was _just_. Morgan wasn't a bartender, he was [k]just[/k] a bartender; not a taxi driver, but _just_ a taxidriver. Not a bouncer, but _just_ a bouncer. Not even a nigger, but _just_ a nigger. Everything that he was, was somehow an embodiment of failure, a mark of mediocrity and a reminder of all the things that should have been, but never were.

Where has my life gone? he asked himself. Once again, he didn't have an answer to that question.

Brandon was still staring at him, obviously waiting for some form of reaction. Morgan was about to simply wave him through, just to be left alone with his grim thoughts, but then an alarmed cry sounded and Brandon and Morgan both turned to locate its source.

It was one of Brandon's friends, the very same dumbass that had called Morgan a nigger. He was cringing on the ground, clutching his stomach. Surrounding him were two men, one black, one white, wearing baggy pants and buttoned up black jackets. The white one of the two turned the prone hipster over and put his foot to his chest.

"Lemme introduce you," he said with a sardonic smile. "I'm Trevor, an'dis is my man Cleavon. My man Cleavon 'as pretty sharp 'earin' and he said'at you jus' used a pretty nasty lil' word toward 'is brodda dere, is dat true?"

He never got an answer. The entire scene exploded in a series of hoarse curses and agitated movements as the remaining members of Brandon's group, recovering from their initial surprise, engaged the pair that had just given their friend a beatdown. The shoving and shouting escalated within seconds, and before Morgan or anyone else even had the chance to react, they were watching a full-blown brawl taking place in front of the club. Punches started flying and the dull smacking of fists meeting faces filled the air.

Brandon himself did not throw himself into the fight. In fact, he looked rather lost and unsure of himself, his confidence swept away by the outbreaking violence. He turned to Morgan. "Do something!" he cried, but Morgan didn't move. He could handle himself well enough in a fight and wasn't exactly afraid to get physical, but no one man was able to keep five others from going at one another if they had set their mind to it. Besides, right in that moment, Morgan also could not have cared less about some dudes trading punches. Certainly not because some little shit like Brandon told him to. It might have been a rather childish act of defiance and a poor man's revenge at best, but it was still preferable to debasing himself any further.

Even with Morgan staying out of it, though, the fight did not last particularly long. One second it was still raging and full intensity, the next it was suddenly over. One of Brandon's friends hat managed to grab the one going by the name of Trevor by the jacket and was about to toss him around when the jacket's zipper broke and tore open, revealing the shirt Trevor was wearing underneath. It was yellow. The hipster's face froze in shock and he released Trevor instantly, sending him tumbling to the tarmac of the street. His friends took a while longer to realize what had happened, but when they did, they too froze, but not before one of them caught Clevon's fist with his face.

Trevor himself only glanced briefly at his ruined jacket and got up. "Damn," he cursed. "Jus' when things started gettin' interesting."

"L...l...look man." Brandon's friend stuttered, raising his hands defensively. "I..I don't want any trouble."

"O'course ya don't, ya big fuckin' baby. Why ya think we came all covered up? Think we cold or somethin'? Now beat'id, mama's boy, before I fuckin' kill ya."

Brandon's friend didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled, and the other members of the group followed suit, leaving Brandon the sole remaining member of their group. When the two Vice Kings started to walk towards him, he shrieked like a child and threw himself at Morgan with terror-widened eyes.

"I'm so sorry!" he cried, repeating the phrase over and over again. "Please Morgan! I didn't know you had friends with the Kings. Don't let them hurt me!"

Out of sheer reflex, Morgan fought Brandon off. The whole situation was somehow beyond him. He wanted to say something, but he was still too confused and overwhelmed by what had happened, and came up empty. Brandon took this for an unwillingness to help, and with another heart-wrenching cry, launched himself into the night, quickly disappearing around the next corner. The Vice Kings didn't go after him. They stopped in front of the club and shared an amused chuckle, mumbling something along the lines of "what a pussy" before turning around once more and disappearing the same way they had come.

With them gone, Morgan found himself alone with the entire absurdity of the situation. The people still waiting in line looked at him expectantly, but Morgan neither noticed nor cared. His mind was fully occupied with sorting out his own shit. Ever since Darnell had made him the offer, all he had really done was searching for a reason why to refuse it. He had tried to convince himself that somehow he didn't need this, that there was another way for him to turn his life around, that he didn't need to stoop that low.

But the did. The sad truth was that he was stuck, caught up in a nightmare that was slowly killing him, one day at a time. He needed to make some changes, and they would have to be big ones, otherwise he would surely lose his mind. This day had made him realize that all too clearly. He wanted to be somebody, somebody people would treat with respect, not [k]just[/k]someone worthless punks like Brandon Wash would walk over. He wanted the money, the power, the prestige; he wanted excitement and thrill. In short, he wanted it all, and there was only one thing that could give him a shot at achieving that. It wasn't right, and it certainly wasn't safe, but here he was, and he had nothing left to lose.

He called Darnell the very same night. His answer was yes.


	3. Chapter 3 - Canonized

**Disclaimer:** So, after several months, finally a new chapter. I really struggled with this one, so please, let me know what you think. Special thanks to CertainUncertainty for helping out with some of the spelling issues. You're the best ;).

* * *

 **Chapter 3 - Canonized**

 **T** rue to their name, the Vice Kings' initiation ritual turned out to be a rather vicious affair. Darnell picked him up the following night. He had not told Morgan what awaited him, just to call in sick at work and to be ready at ten. Morgan had. He was pacing back and forth through the living room, anxious and excited like a boy on prom night, eagerly waiting for Darnell to arrive. It was a big deal for him, his supposed start into a new life, so when by 10:05 still nobody had showed up, Morgan took offense. By 10:10, he had hunkered down on his couch, brooding, nurturing his animosity, and staring stubbornly at the clock as it was ticking away. So when the doorbell eventually did ring, he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that it was 10:17. He was furious, but as he made his way to the door, his nervous excitement resurfaced, so strong that it covered and buried his anger. He hesitated an inch away from the doorknob, taking a deep breath. This was a very big deal for him. With shaking hands, he opened the door.

Darnell was smiling. Not like he had at the Roses, but a full-grown honest to god kind of smile that looked utterly out of place in his face. Without any warning, he grabbed Morgan with his good arm and embraced him.

"Always knew you'd come around eventually, Barnes," he half-whispered in Morgan's ear. Morgan was stunned and allowed it to happen. Darnell's sincerity had caught him off guard. He actually felt bad, becoming aware of how much sympathy Darnell still harbored for him. It made him regret how little he had done back in the day to save their friendship. Even worse than that; he was touched by the display of affection, but at the same time he realized he wouldn't be able to return it, not genuinely. He had lost connection to that part of himself, to that part of his own history. He remembered the happy times he and Darnell had had together, and how much it had meant to him back in the day, but the memories were always far and away and distant to him. He smiled wryly, and wondered whether that made him a bad person.

Darnell didn't notice any of this. His good arm slung around Morgan's shoulder, he led him outside and to the car. Two VKs aside from the driver were there standing watch, leading Morgan to believe that Darnell was taking his last visit to the Row rather seriously. As a result, the car was rather crammed as they made their way west, driving along the same route that Morgan had taken to bring Darnell home. The city passed by outside the window, measured in the flashes of city and traffic lights, lit windows and vibrant neon signs. The air in the car was stuffy and smelled of cigarettes. Darnell and the others weren't talking, and nobody had bothered to turn on the radio, which came as kind of a surprise for Morgan. In his experience, gang bangers usually made a point of letting half the street listen in on their music.

Faced with such a depressing and eerie silence, his mind inadvertently began to wander. He had set out on a new road today, and he wondered how the city that flashed by his window would take to it. What would his life look like in a week, a month, a year? Would it be anything like he imagined it? Would he even make it that long? What would people think once they heard? His parents, Hubert, Markayla, would they approve? Probably not. Would he even tell them? He hadn't decided yet. Probably not right away, not all of them. He wasn't ashamed of his choice. It was just — it had to be the right moment.

Shivington looked as dreary as always as they drove in. Morgan thought he spotted a few new wrecked cars, and more trash bin fires and hobos than usual, but maybe he was just imagining that. Otherwise, it was the familiar scenery of old houses and streets that were plastered with old paper and littered with every sort of trash imaginable: Unclaimed bricks, broken wire fences, cans, bottles and wooden boards clogged both the sidewalks and yards, as well as the patches of sickly looking grass and shrubbery in between where nature fought a depressing battle to reestablish itself within the city. Rusted freezers and dish-washers piled up into shaky towers of refuse, stained with both the contempt of the elements, human excrement, and even bullet holes and blood in some cases. Every once in a while, an old couch could be seen, its former comfyness still recognizable as it was slowly devoured by mold and moisture. Many of those, Morgan knew, would still be in use. Empty as they were at this time of day and illuminated only faintly as they passed, Morgan thought they looked terribly forlorn and desolate.

They stopped outside a towering apartment complex looked similar to the one Rooch was operating out. It was about the same size, and shared the same grey-brown-tinged color. On its side, the paint that had once proudly announced the building's number had all but faded into oblivion, as if the building itself had at some point begun to feel shame for its steady decline and sought to hide that fact behind the obscuring veil of anonymity. As they approached, a flight of birds launched itself into the air from the rooftop.

They were already being awaited. Their host was an incredibly fat brother going by the name of Two-Ton. He wore a long yellow bathrobe over his regular clothing, making him look like the cheapest kind of pimp Morgan ever laid eyes on. Waiting alongside him were two of his men, as well as a group of people that were not representing yet. More fresh meet by the looks of it. Each and every one of them looked at least five years younger than him, some probably closer to ten. Morgan tried not to think about it to much. They all tried to look casual and relaxed, but Morgan saw the anxiety he himself felt written all over their faces.

With Two-Ton and Darnell taking the lead, they all went inside. Littered staircases led them up to an apartment on the 13th floor, hidden behind a dark hardwood door that was definitely not part of the original installment. Two-Ton's place was a spacious den filled with a wild mixture of scavenged furniture and an impressive assortment of patchwork curtains that separated the different rooms. Empty beer bottles were standing and lying around everywhere, and the ashtrays had long been filled to the brim, with more ash and crushed smokes scattered around them. It smelled funny, too. Some of the scents were familiar to Morgan. Others he could not place at all. Dope was definitely part of it, but there was also an unpleasantly sweet smell hanging in the air, as well as something that reminded Morgan in equal parts of cat's piss or the bad fragrance of old perfume. Just breathing it in made him dizzy.

"All right, niggas, let's get this show on the road, shall we?" said Darnell. Instantly, he got everybody's attention, without the need to quiet the group down first. The fact seemed to please him greatly, casting a broad smile upon his face.

"For those of ya who don't know me," he went on. "I'm Darnell, and I gonna be ya sponsor today. The crazy nigga in the bathrobe here is Two-Ton. Between us, he's some crazy motherfucker, but also one of them people who can get ya stuff if ya need it, includin' the best god-damn nose candy in the hood. Which is exactly why the lot of ya is here. For starters, all ya gotta do is to sample Two-Ton's prime product. Easy enough, right?"

Everybody was surprised by that announcement, including Morgan. But where the others began to joke around, calling out to 'bring it on', Morgan frowned. He wasn't offended by the proposal, and the last person to complain when somebody wanted to blow some money on him, but he was somewhat puzzled as to what doing coke was supposed to prove as far as them being gang bangers was concerned. He thought about voicing his concerns, but by the time his resolve had hardened, he had missed the right moment, and another one wasn't in sight. The other prospects had already lined up in front of the glass table behind which Two-Ton had hunkered down on a couch and was busy laying out lines.

The atmosphere was beginning to loosen up now. People were starting to talk, reaching out to the people next in line to them, chatting about whatever came to mind. At some point, music started coming from somewhere, a heavy rhythmic bass melody that laid itself like a giant heartbeat beneath everything was was going on. Snorting voices, followed by cheers rose whenever the next prospect caused another line of Two-Ton's product to disappear up his or her nostrils.

By the time it was Morgan's turn, the glass table looked as if he had been the scene of some twisted baking accident. Two-Ton was just finishing setting his line with an old credit card. He gave Morgan a friendly smile, wiped his own nose with the back of his hand and pointed at the coke. "Enjoy"

Like a good little soldier, Morgan knelt down and leaned over the table. He still wasn't sure what exactly it was supposed to prove, but if that was what it took to join, then he would oblige them. As he leaned in closer, he caught sight of his own reflection, partly hidden behind the smeared traces of cocain on the glass. Something about the sight struck him as wrong, but he pushed the thought aside, shrugged, and snorted away. After all, what harm could it do?

At first, he didn't feel much of anything. With everybody having passed the test, the group spread out in Two-Ton's apartment. Two women passed out beers, the music turned louder, and with it soon the conversations. The last traces of the tension that had marked the evening up until now quickly fell apart and the canonization turned into little more than a pleasant sit in. Morgan was halfway through his first beer by the time he realized that he felt amazing. All of a sudden, he was outright euphoric. It wasn't like being drunk; there was no wooziness or noticeable haze. It was as if all his fears, disappointments and issues he had with himself simply fell away. For the first time in months, he was feeling good about himself and his life, at peace with himself and thoroughly enjoying the time given him. He was glad that he had saved Darnell, about how exciting it all had been, that he was reconnecting with his old pal and making new friends even right in that very moment. Confidence flooded him, and he knew that he had made the right decision, that all the choices he had made had brought him to this point, and life would never get any better than this.

Only it did. Darnell and the other VKs finished their beers, said their goodbyes to Two-Ton, and led the group back outside. There they were divided unto a bunch of cars, and Darnell took them to Prawn Court.

Other than the projects or the Row, Prawn Court wasn't some rundown neighborhood where everybody was scraping to get by. It was the very center of the city's entertainment district. There were no decaying pieces of furniture here, nor burning trash bins and car wrecks. Instead, everything was flashy and glittery, a blur of blinking colors fighting desperately for the attention of the undecided spectator. The signs were everywhere, promising a good time, or ecstasy, or the fulfillment of each and every sexual fantasy. It was simply too much for any one person to take in, the barrage of colors too intense to bear for any extended period of time.

Morgan did not care about any of this. First and foremost, he was still really really high, feeling great and not having a care in the world. But secondly, he knew that they were not going to just any place. The Vice Kings were taking him to **their** brothel, the gang's very own house of forbidden pleasures.

The King's Court was infamous in ways that were usually reserved for only the most exclusive of clubs, possessing the almost mythical notoriety that that came when people were guessing, wondering and imagining things about a place that was connected to a world of which they would never be a part of. With most other brothels, you could just walk in and see what the place looked like, even if you didn't have the cash to pay for a ride with a girl from their stable. But you couldn't just stroll into the King's Court to take a peek. For one, not everybody even knew where the place was, and there some nasty stories going around what happened to those who tried to enter without a proper invitation. Money alone didn't get you in, either. You also needed to be in good standing with the Kings, which meant either being part of the gang yourself, having the right connections or having otherwise proven your worth to the Kings. Morgan had even heard that certain people had begun to coin the phrase 'going to court' when they were expecting for a most spectacular lay to come their way. It was that big of a deal.

In the face of such high expectations, the actual place didn't look like much from the outside. The Vice Kings had moved into the old Raykins Hotel a couple of years back, and Morgan heard it had been vacant for almost a decade before that. Seeing the four-story building with his own eyes, he could certainly believe it. Whatever splendor the hotel once might have possessed had been gone for a long time. Aside from old hardwood doors and the leftover lettering proclaiming the former owner's name, the place pretty much looked like a miniature version of the towers in Shivington, which was a pretty stark contrast to the rest of the district. There wasn't a flashy or glittery thing about it, nothing that would attract any attention whatsoever. In a way, it made sense, Morgan supposed, but seeing the gray building with its spray-painted walls and partly boarded up windows, he could not help to feel disappointed. Part of him thought, if that was the best the Vice Kings could do for their own brothel, then what the hell could he expect them to be able to do for him?

They entered through the back, through an inconspicuous back door. As soon as it opened, Morgan got his answer, and it was given with force force that it caused him to catch his breath. White walls, partly hidden beneath warm wooden panels, polished wooden floors, black and white marble tiles, rich red carpets and square pillars supporting a huge gallery in the entrance hall, all of that and more assaulted Morgan's senses and carried him off in a wave of luxurious awe. He felt as if he had suddenly entered the manor of some high-class politician or rock star.

He hadn't even quite recovered from the first shock when the girls started pouring out of the upper corridors and came down the stairs. What little breath Morgan had recovered was punched out of him all over again. The girls were all slim and beautiful, their bodies only clad in provocative outfits that left nothing to the imagination. They flashed naughty smiles at their guests. Beside Morgan, some of the younger boys gulped in bedazzlement. Everything was very surreal all of a sudden, to see something that Morgan's mind kept telling him belonged to the world of television, not real life. Maybe he was dreaming, he thought, instantly knowing the thought to be foolish. Still, if anybody had even tried to pinch him in that moment, he would have beaten the living crap out of him.

Hand on their hips, the girls finished their little parade down the two parallel stairs like lascivious beauty queens and lined up, each and every movement oozing with sex. Then came the matron. She, too, appeared at the top of the stairs, but rather than walking down, she leaned onto the railing, far enough to show ample cleavage. She was still in her prime, easily the prettiest of all the girls, dressed in a white bra, short skirt and matching stockings and high heels. She had short brown hair, impeccably tamed, with only two golden strands framing her delicate face. What set her truly apart, however, were her eyes and posture. Most of the girls looked docile, some friendly and others again confident and adventurous like true temptresses. She definitely belonged to that last group, but where the other alluring vixens were all about appealing to their audience, she carried herself with a hint of icy, predatory arrogance. Clearly, this was not just any woman.

"Hello, boys," she cooed. "Welcome to the King's Court. I hear we're celebrating today, so me and the girls thought we wanted to make this a night you will never forget."

All the guys smiled rather stupidly at that announcement. They could barely contain their eagerness at this point.

"Who the fuck is that?" Morgan heard somebody whisper behind him.

"Don't even think about it!" came the hissed answer. "That's Tanya. She's with Big Tony, so if ya want ta hit that ya'd betta be prepared it bein' the last thing you fuckin' do."

"Who the fuck is Big Tony?"

"Shh, shut up guys!"

"I heard he's Benjamin King's right hand."

"No shit?"

"Yeah."

"Shut up!"

Morgan rolled his eyes. Children, he thought. Back on the balcony, Tanya gave a throaty chuckle that finally silenced the boys.

"Come on," she chided. "Don't fight. There is enough for everybody to go around, and because today is your special day, the first one is on the house. Ladies?"

The girls didn't need to be told twice. In unison, they moved forward. With easy smiles, naughty promises and dirty looks, they began to tease the boys like there was no tomorrow. Morgan soon lost sight of the big picture. He was lost between the subtle bodies that flowed around him like a sea of ecstasy, naughty smiles and whispered promises causing him to quiver with delight and sending pleasant chills down his spine. He was drowning, and he didn't want to be saved, not for anything in the world.

He only became aware of the other guys when they started to pick girls and were led upstairs. A shock of panic jolted Morgan back into some semblance of soberness. Suddenly afraid of the prospect of not getting his first choice among the girls, his head jerked left and right, scanning the girls' faces while simultaneously trying to decide who his first choice actually would have been.

Two more girls were left away before Morgan was able to make his pick. With a calmness he wasn't feeling, he walked up to an ebony dream of a woman with curly black hair. She had one of these rare faces that could look simply heart-warmingly beautiful in one second, and radiate pure sexuality the next. Combined with that dream of a body she called her own, Morgan never really stood a chance.

She was facing away from him when he reached her. Gently, he grabbed her by the shoulders, letting her know he was there as well as signaling his intentions to the other boys. He lowered his head to her ear, lowering his voice to what he hoped was a susurrant, throaty overture.

"I would like to take you up on the promise you made me back there," he said, nodding at the floor tile where she had first approached him. "Actually, on all of them."

She turned around within his hold and studied his face. Her lips curled into a smile, and she chuckled. "Sure, honey," she whispered back. "I was hoping that it would be you."

Morgan wasn't sure whether he believed that, but he was flattered nonetheless. His own smile widened. "What's your name?"

"Dominique," she said, pressing herself against him. She didn't ask him his name back, he noticed. Instead, her eyes rolled suggestively towards the stairs. "Shall we?"

Morgan nodded. Still smiling, she took him by the hand and led him out of the tangle of bodies. Morgan's eyes didn't stray away from her for so much as a second. He drank in her sight, taking in as many details as possible. The form of her neck, the way her shoulders moved with each step, the deep, full shade of her skin, the way her tiny black skirt caressed her ass. He sighed contently, knowing that he had made the right choice.

She led him into a spacious room with polished wooden floors and rose colored walls that contrasted sharply with the classy look of the entrance hall, not that Morgan paid much attention to his surroundings at that point. His eyes were pretty much glued to the vision before him. Dominique made him sit down on the bed, and then wasted no time, instantly beginning to grind against him. Morgan sure as hell didn't mind. He was rock hard, and more than eager to fuck her.

Yet even with the drugs coursing through his body, Morgan had a hard time relaxing and letting go. His body was willingly enough at first, but when things were about to get serious, thoughts of Markayla kept creeping into his mind, messing with his head and by extension also his body. From there, it didn't take long before he started getting embarrassed and incredibly frustrated with himself. It was only thanks to Dominique that his embarrassment and frustration didn't turn into more violent feelings. She didn't say a word of the obvious problems he was experiencing, and instead of laughing or getting offended, she only began to work all the harder to help Morgan to the pleasure he was promised. Her body seemed to move in a blur, writhing in pleasure, her lips and fingers caressing every inch of his body in the pretense of insatiable hunger as she slowly built up his hardness again. Morgan had never experienced remotely as much pleasure during any kind of foreplay he had ever had before.

Ultimately, he was hard enough to enter her, and and with a hazy sense of immense gratitude, he didn't just fuck her until he came, but tried to give back some of the pleasure she had given him, even if part of him felt foolish for treating a whore in such an enamored manner. Dominique moaned and screamed under his touches and ministration, enjoying, or at least pretending to enjoy the ride as much as Morgan himself did. His doubts stayed with him, though, and when all was said and done, he still ended up tipping her almost half of the money Darnell had given him. The drugs probably had something to do with his generosity, but he really was incredibly grateful for what she had done for him. He sensed somehow that not being able to perform would have been something he would have had trouble coping with.

After the intimacy of the room, Morgan felt kind of displaced as he came back down the stairs. He hadn't really bothered to differentiate where the high of the drugs ended and the high of the love play started, but both had definitely ended by now. He still felt kind of good, loose and spent and flush with the afterglow of sex, but nowhere near as good as he had before. Additionally, the knowledge how thoughts of Markayla had almost unmanned him kept eating at him, and the depressed, nagging voice of his had awoken once again in the back of his head, dripping its steady poison into his soul.

The others were already waiting for him. "Gee, somebody has some major endurance on him," joked one of the youngsters with a jeering smile. "Respect, bro!"

The kid moved forward and extended his fist for Morgan to bump. Morgan blinked at the offered fist, torn between genuine surprise and mild irritation. He looked back at the kid with his patchy beard, mangy arms and the oversized yellow sweater. For a moment, he considered refusing to simply leave the kid hanging, if only to pretend his sex hadn't taken up as much time as it had. But the gesture was offered in genuine - if juvenile - camaraderie, and there was something strangely endearing about the kid's smile. Chuckling breathlessly, Morgan touched knuckles with him.

Darnell stepped forward. He gave Morgan a knowing look and shook his head.

"All right, folks, listen up!" he announced. "We've shown ya the drugs, and we've shown ya the pussy. Stick wit' us and ya'll see the cars and the cash and stuff, too. But now ya gonna give something back. Ya gonna show us that ya have what'id takes to hang with us Kings. Better be ready for it, fellas."

Morgan didn't like the sound of that. It sounded serious, and from the looks the others exchanged, he could tell that some of them were at least nervous, maybe even as worried as he was. But there was nothing he could do about it. He had made his choice. There was no turning back now, and whatever would be asked of him, he would do. It just couldn't be helped.

They were led out back into the gloomy parking lot, leaving the world of glamor behind and exchanging it for the all to familiar sight of Stilwater's nightly streets. Few of them were glad to be back. Darnell told them to sit tight, then headed back inside, leaving the prospects all by themselves as he fetched whatever needed fetching for the next part of the canonization.

A couple of the boys lit up smokes as a way to pass the time. Other than that, the talk of their sexual exploits and the merits of the different girls simply continued. The only girl of the group, Keisha, got the worst of that conversation.

"Wait a sec," muttered one of the boys, a puzzled look spreading over his face. "Keish? What the hell were you doin' while we're inside?"

Dirty smiles and chuckles rose before Keisha got the chance to react, the boys' imagination running rampant in their heads. That they had needed this long to even notice the issue was a statement all by itself, but it did not keep the boys from jumping into the topic with gusto.

"I bet there was some nice girl on girl action goin' on!" suggested one of the other boys, the very same one who had approached Morgan with a fist bump inside. The grin that spread over his face was well beyond sleazy. "Mmh, that must've been somethin'. Had I known, just might've chosen to watch instead of the action I got."

Immediately, the others shouted both their a- and disapproval of the theory, their voices tumbling over one another as they were determined to make their own thoughts on the matter heard by the others. Morgan chuckled and shook his head, equally embarrassed and amused.

The discussion was cut short a few seconds later, when Keisha's fist exploded into sleazy grin's face, knocking him over. The other boys all took an involuntary step back, their smiles wiped from their faces. Keisha flashed a smile on her own as she towered over the mangy youngster, rubbing her knuckles.

"Sure, Tips. As if you could handle as much as bein' in the same room when I get it on with another babe," was all she had to say in the matter. The other boys cheered and laughed and groaned in mocking sympathy for their downed friend. After a punch like that, they probably would have deemed any line a proper punchline. Morgan couldn't blame them. He sure as hell found it hilarious.

* * *

 **W** hen Darnell still hadn't returned after a quarter of an hour, the boys were beginning to get restless. Some immediately went for the second coffin nail, while others began to shift their weight back and forth and cast furtive glances around as their uneasiness grew. It did not take long before the questions starting pouring out of them.

Where was Darnell? Was this maybe part of the test? Were they supposed to get back inside? Morgan asked himself similar questions, but he kept quiet about it. From Darnell's description, it was clear that whatever came next would be a considerable deal less enjoyable than the first two parts of the initiation, and Morgan would not have put it past the VKs to jump their initiates without telling them about it, to see how they would react and handle themselves.

Darnell finally arrived after a couple of more minutes, together with the woman Tanya and two other Vice Kings that Morgan had not seen before. Both of them were huge. Even Morgan, who considered himself tall bordering on seven feet, was forced to look up at these giants. Other than their size and skin-color though, the two Kings were as different as night and day. The first one was massive, almost as fat as he was big, with thick black hair, a full beard, and wearing baggy pants and a huge baseball jacket. The second one was bald and had a much more classy look about him, wearing gray suit pants, expensive shoes, and a formfitting muscle shirt in black and yellow. The shirt suited him particularly well, for unlike the first giant, this one was all muscle and no fat. He seemed to be pretty important, too, for Darnell and the others actually came out following him rather than the other way round.

As they approached, the whispering within the group started anew.

"Fuck, that's him."

"Who?"

"Big Tony."

"For real?"

"Yeah"

"Look at that monster! Can ya imagine what it must be like for a chick like Tanya to ... ya know ... fuck that?"

"Jesus Christ! Why don't you speak a little louder, fool, I don't think they have heard you yet!"

"Just shut the fuck up!"

Anthony 'Big Tony' Green stopped right in front of the crew. He looked them over with a pleasant expression, nodding appreciatively once or twice. Morgan wasn't sure what he would have expected from someone as high up in the gang as Big tony was rumored to be, but it certainly wasn't the friendly, down-to-earth manner with which the lieutenant conducted himself, not to mention the fact that for some reason the man considered it worth his while to move out back and meet a couple of wasters who weren't even fully part of the gang yet.

"All right, dawgs!" he Darnell. "There was a change of plans. Normally, my man Chill here would be your opponent, checkin' whether you have the guts for rollin' with us Kings. But ya're lucky, for Mr. Green here has decided he could use a littl' exercise, and offered t'see whatchya got personally. Dis is a great fuckin' honor, in case that's not clear, so ya better not mess this up!"

Even with the explanation, the boys and Keisha didn't really look all that eager to receive that honor. Morgan couldn't blame them. Going up against a giant like Chill would have been bad enough, especially for the smaller, younger members of the group. But where Chill was huge and heavy and had all the advantages that could bring to a fight, he didn't look particular powerful or formidable. Big Tony, on the other hand, looked like a reigning boxing champion, and probably punched just as hard. Morgan had gotten into the ring with a variety of monsters over the years at the gym, but never anything even close to the caliber that Anthony Green represented.

He wasn't exactly looking forward to the experience.

"All right," announced Big Tony with a deep, full voice, cracking his knuckles. "Who wants to go first?"

Blanching faces and shy eyes avoiding his own greeted Tony in response. He waited for a moment, then erupted into laughter, loud and full of good humor.

"Come on, guys! I promise I gonna - "

"I'll go first."

Morgan wished that it had been him who showed this kind of guts, but to his dismay the words hadn't been his. Maybe worse than this; of all people it turned out to be Keisha. The woman. Most of the boys wanted to die of embarrassment in that moment.

Anthony did not seem particularly thrilled with his volunteer, either. He blinked at first, crossed his arms and then furrowed his brows, tilting his head slightly to the side as he gave Keisha a second look-over. Morgan almost could see the wheels turning behind that shining forehead.

"You got guts, little sister, I give you that," he said eventually, almost carefully. "But I don't fight girls, sorry."

"You what?" Keisha asked. "You're jokin', right?"

Tony shrugged. "'Fraid not, darling. Now, who else - "

Keisha did not let him get any further than that. "Fuck that!" she shouted. "What's the matter with you, tough guy? Afraid to get your big ass whooped by a pair of tits of what!?"

Darnell shot Keisha a poisonous stare, as did Tony's own woman, but Keisha already was too far gone to care. Anthony himself only chuckled in response. "Right, girl. I'm shakin', and now drop it. Believe me, I'm doing you a favor."

"If I wanted fucking favors, I would have spread my legs like all o'them other bitches. Think that is less humiliating than a little bleeding from the nose?"

Now, everybody was looking at Keisha either shocked or in anger. For Morgan, it was a bit of both. He was already feeling bad enough about his encounter with Dominique, even without Keisha getting all bitchy about it. He didn't think that she was necessarily wrong, but seeing from where they just came from, being forced to look into a mirror like that was very uncomfortable. Keisha would have better minded her own business.

Even Anthony's patience was exhausted at this point. He took a step towards Keisha, towering above her by two heads and easily weighing twice of what the lithe girl did. He let out a warning growl. "Enough with the yapping, girl. You ain't impressin' anybody, so if you have a problem with - "

Keisha struck him. The attack was fast and hard; a viscous uppercut that cracked noticeably as it connected with Anthony's chin. His head snapped back, so very fast in reality and yet agonizingly slow as the baffled minds of the spectators tried to process what they were seeing. Keisha wasn't finished yet. She knew that she wasn't a match for somebody of Anthony's size head on, and while the first blow had been hard, it had only been meant to create an opening. She stepped forward, putting her weight on her advancing foot, taking aim and launching herself into Anthony knee-first, going for his groin.

Yet even taken by surprise, Anthony managed to avoid her attack. Instinctively, he dodged aside into a sideward stance, hiding his wide front behind his own arm and shoulder as her reeled from the surprise attack. Instead of his groin, Keisha's knee only punched into his upper thick. It was doubtlessly still a rather painful experience, but not the kind of sickening knock-out punch that Keisha had aimed for.

She didn't get a second chance.

Anthony recovered from the first punch, and - all his earlier qualms about hitting women forgotten - struck back. His massive arm lashed out in a powerful backhanded slap that exploded against Keisha's face, swatting her aside like an insolent child. The girl hit the ground hard, half-dazed for a moment, but still uncowed. With a snarl, she rose to her knees, blood seeping from a split lip, and readied herself to throw herself at Big Tony once more.

The audible click of someone pulling back the hammer of his gun cut through the night close to Keisha's ear. She blinked, but before she could turn, Darnell pressed the barrel of his gun to the back of her head. "Give me a reason, bitch," he growled with a tomb-deep voice. Keisha froze instantly, and for the first time, actual concern showed on her face.

At that point, Morgan should have interfered. He didn't know Keisha, nor did he feel that she would have appreciated him coming to her rescue on no other grounds than her being a woman - not after the stunt she had just pulled - and yet he should have done something to keep her from getting shot. Not because he knew her or some conventions, but because she didn't deserve this, and it would have been the right thing to do. Yet he didn't. He watched as the scene unfolded; a brave, strong woman on her knees, about to be shot by his childhood friend. To his dismay, he found himself morbidly fascinated by the sight. He wondered if Darnell would actually do it. Could he kill Keisha, one of his own over a few harsh words and a few punches? Was a life really worth so little on the streets?

He knew the answer to that question before he had finished it. Of course it was. People had died in Stilwater over far less, and no matter whether it was in the projects or on the Row, respect was as important as money, maybe even more so. He knew all that, and still he watched, mesmerized, for while he had internalized these rules of the streets, he had never seen them enforced as drastically as he was about to in that moment. Just for that, he was prepared to let a woman have her brains blown out. That was just how little a life was actually worth to **himself**. The realization shocked him, regardless of the anger he still felt towards Keisha because of earlier. All of a sudden, his own lack of compassion sickened him to the core.

Darnell seemed to be similarly unburdened. His features were set, the mouth tightened to a grim line, his yes bristling with disgust for the woman who had dared to strike King's right-hand man. It was weird for Morgan seeing him like this. It reminded Morgan of the night where Darnell had stood above him, the very same gun he was holding now pointed at Morgan. With everything that had happened afterwards, Morgan had almost forgotten it ever happened. But it had, and now, being an uninvolved spectator and seeing clearly, Morgan just knew that Darnell would do it, just as he would have done with him hadn't that other gunner come along and shot him. He could have been dead, Morgan realized. Darnell would have shot him, his former friend, and judging by the looks of it, he would not have slept any worse for it.

Compared to that, Morgan's own lack of compassion seemed almost tolerable.

The air was charged up to the limit. They could all feel what was coming. They could see in Darnell's eyes, and written over Keisha's shocked face, and none of them dared to do anything about it. They all just watched, waiting for that fateful moment to arrive, after which it would be too late. Slowly, Darnell's finger curled around the trigger.

"Don't."

It wasn't a plea. The words were spoken like an order, full of confidence and underlined with the edge of suppressed rage. They didn't come from Keisha. Instead, all eyes snapped towards Big Tony. He was looking down at Keisha, his face a mask of cold fury. He hawked and spit a pink mixture of blood and bile/saliva to the ground, then he moved next to Darnell. For a moment, the two men stared down at Keisha together, but then Anthony's face lit up again, and he chuckled once more.

"Damn, little sister, you 're something else!" he said merrily, turning to Darnell. "Wouldn't want a wild card like that on my crew, but you're goin' to need people like her if you want to take the Row. She's in."

There were no cheers for Keisha. Awkwardly, she scrambled to her feet, and upon Anthony's order moved back to stand with the others on unsure legs. Her face was empty, dazed, her eyes far away, her skin pale. The others were exchanging puzzled looks. Nobody knew how to react.

"So your woman can fight," Anthony went on. He smashed his fist eagerly into the palm of his other hand, and scanned the prospects once more. "What about the boys?"

Morgan thought that Anthony's eyes had rested longer on him than the others. Being the oldest, biggest, and by far the most athletic of the group, Morgan clearly was the one promising the most sport to a guy like Big Tony. Still, Morgan did not feel like jumping right in to defend the group's honor. If his coach and his time in the ring had taught him anything, then it was that knowing what your opponent was capable of was just as important as whipping your own body into fighting shape. His body, Morgan didn't worry about, not even against a giant like Anthony, but being able to observe a few fights before going up against the Vice Kings' chief enforcer was an advantage he couldn't pass up on, even if it meant sacrificing the younger guys and a good deal of his pride to get it.

The rest of the boys had their very own reasons for hesitating to step forward. Anthony's size and reputation were just two of them. But Big Tony waited patiently, and eventually, one of the boys cracked under the pressure of silence. There were always those for whom the waiting turned out to be more unbearable than the fear of whatever was coming to them.

In this instance, the guy's name was Marvin. Haggard, but in a lean, wolfish way, he was one of the fitter looking prospects, and judging from the barely healed bruises on his knuckles, he clearly was no stranger to violence either. Yet Anthony toyed with him like with a schoolboy. At first he held back, dodging and blocking and allowing Marvin to throw a series of punches, but right from the start it was painfully obvious that Anthony was merely playing with the boy. The Vice King enforcer didn't make a spectacle out of it, though. He held back, yes, but beyond that, there was no humiliation involved. For that, Morgan could not help but like the man.

When Anthony finally decided to jump into action, none of them were ready for it, least of all Marvin. With a speed that belied his size, Anthony suddenly lashed out, sending a right cross thundering straight through Marvin's meager guard and straight into his face. The boy reeled as if a grenade had just exploded into his face, half-dazed even as blood came spurting out of his nose. To his credit, he shook it off and threw himself at Tony again.

He better would have stayed down.

Big Tony pushed him to his limits, goading him into attacking again and again while delivering crushing blows to the boy's body at the speed of peltering rain. In the midst of things, the punch that finally ended it looked strangely insignificant. It was just another jab that connected with Marvin's jaw, but Marvin's entire body simply gave way and collapsed, knocked out cold. just another jab - but Marvin's entire body simply gave way and toppled to the ground, knocked out cold.

Afterwards, it was deadly quiet in the yard. Anthony asked Chill to bring the boy inside, saying that he had done good. Then he pointed to the next youngster in line, and called him forward. He had not even broken a sweat yet.

The same scenario repeated itself over the course of the next few minutes, and one boy after the next got sent to the ground. Finally, the last of them finally collapsed and joined the half-circle of bruised, groaning bodies at whose center Tony stood triumphant. Of the potential new members, only Keisha and Morgan were left standing, and the two exchanged slightly dazzled, uncomfortable look. By now, Anthony was sweating freely, but that was about the only sign of the beat marathon that he had just dished out. One by one, Anthony had picked the boys off, burning through all of their energy, reserves and ultimately their resolve like it was nothing, his own stamina seemingly inexhaustible.

Marvin's had been among the best performances, others had bordered on the embarrassing, but after each one, Anthony announced that another soldier had joined the Vice Kings with the same quiet cheerfulness. Judging by Chill's poorly hidden scowl, his judgment of the prospects would have differed. Or maybe he was just pissed that he wouldn't be able to do some damage this evening himself. Morgan wasn't sure. Neither did he know what a person had to do to fail this initiation. Being a bad fighter by itself didn't seem to suffice, or maybe the simple demand for fresh bodies blunted the Vice Kings' standards in the matter. Morgan's heart was beating feverishly in his chest. Everyone had stepped into the ring and was a Vice King by now. Everyone but him.

A slight shiver passed through his body when Anthony's gaze settled on him. Anticipation and anxiety surged through him like the discharge of a taser, causing the hairs on the nape of his neck to rise and setting his skin tingling. _This was it_ , he thought. _Your chance to prove what you are made of. It was time to get serious._

He stepped forward.

Big Tony gave him a wolfish smile. "I'm expecting more of a challenge from you. Don't make me regret keeping you for last."

Morgan wanted to smile, but his face was so tense that it wouldn't obey him. He nodded instead. His mind was spinning. He had seen nothing watching Anthony that qualified as a weakness, nothing he could take advantage of. But that didn't mean he wouldn't try to win.

A man who does not believe in himself will usually find that he is right, his old boxing coach had always said, before the cancer had claimed him. Confidence, he had been convinced, was vital for any kind of competition, just as doubt was the worst kind of poison. Doubt caused a man to think and wonder about the possibilities, and this interfered with the harmony of body and mind, making a man slower than one whose mind is unburdened and focused upon the here and now.

So that was what Morgan did. He emptied his mind, and detached himself from all the things that were weighing him down, forcing more and more thoughts and fears into obscurity until all he saw before him was a man he would fight. A big man, a powerful and fast man even, but still just a man. A man that he could beat. A man he would beat.

Slowly but steadily, his body eased up and settled into a state of concentrated calm, and a rare sense of clarity took hold of him. It was an almost spiritual experience, a state that Morgan wished he could obtain in other areas of his life as well. Not in that moment, though. In that moment, something primal within him seemed right at home facing down a powerful opponent, and Morgan embraced the feeling, allowing it to take over.

The fight commenced slowly. Different to those who had come before him, Morgan didn't snap after a few moments to rush head-first into the fight. He was patient. But so was Big Tony. Right away, he had dropped the contemptuously relaxed stance he had adopted for some of the other fights. He was expecting a fight this time, and Morgan was hell-bent on delivering.

Footwork and jabs. That was how it started. The two men closed in on one another, guards raised and eyes alert, and then they dashed forwards and backwards, in and out, throwing one feint after another and probing their opponent's defenses whenever they got into striking range. The pace constantly increased, one fluid movement passing over into the next, until all was a blur of shuffling feet and flying fists. Without warning, the punches started flying in earnest. Morgan went for it first. He threw another jab, but instead of retreating afterwards, he danced sideways around Anthony and sent two more fists flying after the first. Anthony blocked the first, but the second punched through and hammered against his temple. It felt like punching a rock. Still, the towering enforcer gritted his teeth against the pain, then retaliated instantly, throwing a quick jab with his left and a wild haymaker with his right. Morgan was ready, though, and he nimbly deflected the first punch and jumped out of reach before the second could hit home.

A brief surge of relief washed over him. That first hit had been important. It strengthened him in his confidence, while possibly draining Big Tony of his own. Morgan smiled cockily, hoping to unsettle and provoke, but Anthony returned the smile, shook off the rest of the punch, and advanced. Refusing to back down, Morgan met him half-way.

Sensing an opening, Morgan lunged forward first with a right cross. Too late he realized that was exactly what Big Tony wanted him to do. At the last second, the Vice King dodged out of the way and charged into him. An angry shove tested Morgan's balance to the limit, but he managed to hold his ground and quickly threw an uppercut that exploded against Anthony's chin. Morgan cheered, waiting for his enemy to stagger a step back under the impact, when suddenly something struck his guts with sickening force. For a split second, Morgan was confused, wondering whether he had been shot, until he realized that Anthony had simply powered through his uppercut and somehow still found the strength to strike back at the same time. He had barely finished the thought when a second punch smashed straight into his face.

Bright flashes of pain exploded before his eyes, dizzying him. He tried to move away, but suddenly two strong arms grabbed hold of him, pinning him in place, and the next moment a knee buried itself in his stomach. Morgan would have doubled over if not for the iron arms that bound him. The taste of bile rose onto his tongue. He struggled against the grapple, but the knee scissored down and up again, driving the last of his breath from his lungs in a pain-filled, husky gasp.

Then he was sent flying. Anthony pulled Morgan first towards and then past him, using his own weight to launch his opponent's body. Morgan never stood a chance. He stumbled, flew, hit the ground, bounced off the courtyard and rolled on. The others winced, cheered and chuckled, their own previous ordeal already forgotten as they enjoyed the violent exchange.

Anthony was enjoying himself as well.

"Not bad!" he complemented Morgan with a cheerful grin. "But this is not a boxing ring. Come on, I want to see a real fight here."

Morgan rose slowly, suppressing a growl. On a logical level, he knew that Anthony could afford to be so condescending and patronizing, but even by thinking about it this way, his true feelings in the matter became obvious. It was one thing for Big Tony to play with the boys in that fashion, but Morgan wasn't some clueless little punk, and being treated in this manner was humiliating and demeaning.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. An angry fighter was a stupid fighter, he reminded himself. _Don't let him get to you._ It might even have been more of an effective routine for Anthony than just pleasurable indulgence, Morgan realized. Taken together with his size, reputation and strength, this display of easy confidence was a more effective weapon than Tony's friendly demeanor might have let on. Morgan wondered whether Anthony was even aware of that. With a clenched jaw, he raised his fists once more. The fight continued.

Anthony struck the next blow; a hammered right cross that punched straight through Morgan's guard and thundered against his chin. Morgan's response followed swiftly. Dodging through under a careless swing, he moved in close, peppering Tony's midsection with a wild combination before sending another uppercut crashing against Anthony's skull.

They danced back and forth like this, moving, dodging and punching their way over the tarmac of the parking lot. Big Tony's supremacy became less and less obvious. If the rest of the crew still cheered, Morgan at least no longer had any capacity to consciously register it. He was lost in the fighting, reacting and moving on little more than instinct and muscle memory. It was a pace that was impossible to sustain. And yet Morgan refused to slow down. Even though his body was tiring fast, he threw himself at Anthony time and time again, probing, attacking and retreating, giving it his all.

There was no point to it, really. Morgan was well aware that he didn't need to win, that it might in fact make things harder should he manage to pull it off somehow. The purpose of the fight was _just_ to show that he could handle himself, and he suspected he had done that already.

His thoughts staggered. There it was again. That word. Just. Morgan growled, even as he threw another punch. He rejected everything that word represented. As much as it had dominated his former life, so much he now refused to bow before its oppressive tyranny. Morgan couldn't afford 'just' anymore, not if he wanted his life to become anything like he envisioned it. 'Just' just didn't cut in anymore. So there wouldn't be any more just-getting-bys, no more mediocrity, and more being stuck. Consequently, he wouldn't just make it through this fight somehow. If there was any chance for him to win, he would take it.

With even greater vigor, he closed in on Anthony once more. Fists rained down upon him, but he blocked, dodged and soaked them up, replying to each one with one of his own. Both men were bleeding by now, drops of red that trickled forth from where skin had split under the impact of rugged fists. They were panting after each bout, sweat running freely over their skin, burning and itching whenever it seeped into a wound. Both of them chose to ignore it and fought on.

Then it was over. Anthony and Morgan had just separated after a clash, when Big Tony lowered his guard with a massive sigh of his heaving lungs and muttered "Enough." Morgan blinked in disbelief. He stayed alert, fearing some kind of trick or play, but Anthony remained where he was, motionless and completely open to attack. Morgan didn't understand. He looked to the others for help, but the eyes that stared back with wonder and incomprehension held no answers for him. Anger touched him in that moment, a sense of betrayal claiming that his chance of victory had just been taken from him for no apparent reason.

"What are you doing, man?" he asked, sounding more puzzled than angry. "Come on, we're not done yet."

"Yes we are," Anthony disagreed. "I have seen everything I needed to see. Phew. That was the best fight that I have had in months! Congratulations, you have just made it into the Vice Kings."

Morgan wasn't really listening. His boiling blood was still rushing in his ears, demanding of him to bring their fight to the only logical conclusion, and not to bow to this false bullshit of civility that Anthony was throwing in his face. His sense struggled to keep the dark urge at bay. It worked, for a couple of moments. Then the leash tore, and with a defiant cry on his lips, Morgan surged forward again.

Somehow, Anthony was ready for it. He had made it seem like it wasn't so, making a point of casually ignoring Morgan and even starting to walk past him, but when Morgan lunged, Anthony turned perfectly into the attack, spinning away from the hands seeking to grab hold of him and catching Morgan in an effortless headlock himself.

"What a day!" Big Tony shouted, surprisingly cheerful. "Two people fighting like their life is depending on it. Either you have found the best of all people for the job, or the very very worst."

The last words were addressed at Darnell, whose eyes darted back and forth between Anthony and Morgan, still tugged under his arm. His face was torn between seething anger and honest puzzlement. His only reaction consisted of a helpless shrug.

Morgan kept struggling against Anthony's hold. His anger and sense of restlessness were rising, growing in strength until they filled out his entire being, setting him off in a mad and panicy sort of rage. Being unable to move became a torment that almost drove him mad. It was as if he couldn't breath, as if the arms that were holding him were not merely pinning him in place but under water, trying to suffocate him. The penned up aggression eventually pinnacled and released itself in a last surge of frantic movement, and a veritable explosion of violent curses. But Big Tony's grip was iron, and held him firmly in place until the aggression slowly leaked out of him. In its wake, Morgan felt empty and displaced, as if his body had forgotten how to come up with another emotion to replace it. When the last of his struggles eventually subsided, Anthony finally released him. He gave him another good, long look, then turned away.

"I have a feeling I have not seen the last of you," he said over his shoulder." Hopefully, by then you will have learned to keep your head straight."

He turned to Tanya. "Come on, babe, let's get out of here."

Tanya Winters nodded sweetly as her boyfriend walked past her, but once he was, her eyes turned towards Morgan once more. She looked him over, as if really seeing him for the first time, head tilted slightly to the side, chewing thoughtfully on her gum. Then a smile bloomed on her face, but it wasn't a sweet, alluring smile, but dripping with smug- and wickedness. She chuckled and winked at him, even going as far as blowing him a kiss, then turned around and finally strutted after Big Tony.

Morgan watched her depart with an impassive face. He was still dazed, his thoughts sluggish and disjointed. The world around him seemed far away and unimportant. It took a while before he realized that Tanya's actions might hold some significance to him. The sight of her smile stayed with him, though. That gleeful, cruel twist of her sweet face that looked utterly out of place, and yet had been there.

What had made her smile like that? Morgan wondered when his mind started to clear a little. Had she savored seeing Big Tony humiliate him like that? Was it the simple fact that Tony had won? Or was she somehow thrilled that Morgan had come close to beating her boyfriend? It seemed unlikely. What reason could she have had for such a thing? And what was with the wink,with the kiss? Was Tanya just a tease, or was there something more to it? None of it made any sense, and Morgan was too tired and humiliated to really care.

One thing was certain, though. Something was going on with that woman.

And with a smile like that, Morgan doubted it was anything good.


	4. Chapter 4 - Back to the Basics

**Chapter 4 - Back to the Basics**

 **M** organ was in.

His canonization might have not went down as he would have wished, but he had made it into the Vice Kings. He still couldn't fully grasp it. The very notion felt alien in his head, like trying to believe a bad joke and overpower that nagging part of your brain as it keeps telling you that you are making a fool of yourself. But Morgan did. He held on to the thought, cherishing it and repeating it to himself over and over with a tenacity born of desperation, keeping it alive. He didn't know yet whether he felt better or actually worse than he ever had, but even through these conflicted moments, the knowledge that he was making an effort to change rather than to go on as it was managed to sustain him. It wasn't much, but for the moment, it was enough to keep him going, and that was more than he had had the previous day.

Darnell had been pretty mad at him for going up against Big Tony the way that he had, saying that he had vouched for Morgan and now he was making Darnell look bad, not just to anybody but King's number two of all people. Morgan had refrained from pointing out that — despite everything — Anthony had hardly seemed pissed or disappointed to Morgan. Instead, Morgan had simply suffered through the mental beatdown, trying to look as timid and remorseful as possible. Eventually, Darnell had gotten off his back.

The days of transition brought along a series of interesting changes. Some proved to be definite improvements to his previous way of living. Others not so much. The most obvious change was his clothing, of course. "To be a king, you have to dress like a king," Darnell had said. A tremendous load of bullshit is what that was. There was nothing luxurious or refined about the Vice King's dress code. Most of what Morgan had seen so far had looked like stuff straight from On the Rag or even Sloppy Seconds. Shit just had to be yellow, that was all. As long as you were amply representing, nobody gave a shit about the price tag. Morgan had eventually decided on a yellow, short-sleeved shirt over a black tank top and cargo pants. Unlike others, he had outgrown his taste for football shirts and hoodies long ago, and he wasn't about to revert back to the old ways. This was about moving forward, not backwards.

The Vice King also expected him to put a lot of hours into working for them, and to be at the gang's beck and call 24/7. Inadvertently, this meant that Morgan was forced to quit all of the three jobs he was juggling. The worst part about this was that nobody so much as addressed the issue of how to make a living. Darnell had stuffed another bundle of bills into his hand after the initiation, for "food, clothes and anything else" Morgan might have needed. He had spent the cash sparingly and with care, and yet there was no way it was going to last him the week. What would happen after that, he had no idea.

He still went ahead with it. The Vice kings were not some fresh upstarts that didn't know what they were doing. Judging by everything he had heard about them, they were very well organized and methodical. There had to be some sort of arrangement in play, he was sure of it. So he quit. It was easy enough when it came to his job at the taxi service and the bouncer gig. Despite the time had had spent and the people he had gotten to know there, Morgan found that there was preciously little connecting him to those place emotionally. It concerned him for a while, until he eventually reasoned that it only proved how much his life had been in need of the changes the had set into motion. He promised himself that he would make the time to walk by once he had settled into his new routine, to say his proper farewells to his former colleagues and invite them out for a beer, but until things had quieted down, Morgan rationalized that two quick phone calls would have to do the trick. He didn't even leave the house for that.

The job at the Sea Roses, however, was another matter entirely. Hubert was more than just his boss there. He was a friend, maybe even something like a second father figure. Him, Morgan felt, he owed more than a crappy phone call. He thought about not wearing his new clothes for this. it sure as hell would have made things easier, given Hubert's generally low opinion on anything gang-related. Yet in the end, Morgan decided against it. It would have felt like a weak decision to him, as if he wasn't able to stand by the choice he had made. He didn't want to hide from Hubert.

Walking into the Sea roses at noon, dressed in his new blacks and yellows brought about a veritable myriad or uneasy feelings. The intimate familiarity he had developed with the place was warring with the knowledge that he had changed. He was no longer one of the guardians of the place, but an intruder, something foreign and unwanted. His old persona was still firmly in place though, and thus Morgan still found himself wanting to preserve the integrity of the place. A shiver traveled down his spine, and for a moment, he stood undecidedly in the entrance, at the same time wanting to leave and to go forward.

Then his eyes met Hubert's. His former boss was towering behind the counter. Morgan's entrance had interrupted him in the middle of refilling the shelves with bottles of booze. Morgan could not help but shake his head fondly. Normally, this would have been the job of the barkeeper, or any hired help for that matter, but Hubert had always insisted on doing this menial task himself. Morgan had asked him once why. Hubert had only shrugged. "Always pictured me doing this when I dreamt of owning a bar," he had answered. "Turns out that I hate it, but you aren't going to find me that ungrateful for a wish granted. There are too damn few of those going around, believe me son."

Well, he had been certainly right on the last part.

Hubert was a grizzled grizzly, a true bear among men. Bald, mocha skinned and with an enormous salt and pepper beard that made him look like some sort of tribal chieftain, the man simply radiated raw strength in a way that Morgan had always admired. He just had presence, a natural authority that asserted itself whenever he spoke, or simply stared at somebody with his unyielding gray eyes as he did now. It was harder for Morgan to walk up to the counter than he would have liked to admit. To some extend, he felt like a child again. It was a stupid thought, especially considering how old he had felt when faced with the other boys initiated into the Vice Kings. It seemed like his mind was hellbent on interpreting circumstances always in the most depressing way possible. Sometimes, he wondered just what exactly was wrong with him.

For a while, nobody said a word, and the silence between the two men grew. Hubert had tossed a rug onto the counter and was idly rubbing away at the wood. Morgan had steepled his fingers and watched the older man across the counter with a settled expression. Strangely enough, Morgan didn't find it weird. In its own way, the silence was very appropriate, the quiet admittance of something maybe both men had always sensed was bound to happen.

"So that's how it is, eh?" Hubert asked eventually. It wasn't a real question, and it added nothing to what had passed between them in silence. It was merely a way forward.

Morgan nodded solemnly. "I guess it is."

Hubert shook his head. His broad frame shook as a humph passed over into a chuckle. He stopped his polishing, took hold of the counter with both hands, and sighed.

"They're making me quit all my regular jobs," Morgan went on. "So I can't work here any longer. Thought you should know."

"Still the same policy, huh? Well, doesn't really matter. I would have fired your ass anyhow. You know how I stand on you mustard boys."

Morgan nodded. "Yeah, I do. Just wanted to let you know what I appreciate everything you have done for me here. I hope this doesn't change anything between us. I want us to be good despite this."

"Oh, we're good," Hubert assured him. Then a mischievous grin broke through the thoughtful scowl on his face. "As long as you give the Roses a wide berth that is. I am not making any exceptions for you, you hear me boy?"

Morgan suppressed a sigh of relief. He really had been worried that Hubert would be furious with him, or worse, actually hurt by him leaving to become part of the Vice Kings. Other people might have taken his grumpy response to be just that, but Morgan knew Hubert better than that. It was his way of showing tough love, and it meant the world to Morgan in that moment.

"What if I get homesick?" he asked, mirroring Hubert's smile.

"Then you fucking call or write a letter and shit. Anyways. Can't really blame you, son. I guess some mistakes you must make for yourself in order to understand them. It's just sad to see the next generation make the same ones I did back in the day. Makes all the pain and misery seem kind of pointless, you know?"

Morgan nodded knowingly before he had actually understood what Hubert was saying. When it finally clicked, his eyes almost popped from their sockets. "Wait, you were a Vice King!?"

"Sure was," Hubert said with a throaty chuckle. "Back in the day when that actually counted for something good, or so we told ourselves at least. Oh, come on son, don't give me that look. You didn't really want to know, otherwise you would have just asked. What do you think keeps the guttersnipes off my front steppes? You think great Benjamin fucking King has ever allowed himself to be deterred by some tough act and a gun? Hell no! If he wanted to bury me, he absolutely could and would. Nothing would stop him."

"Then how — "

"Because he doesn't want to, goddammit! He owes me that much. We got history, him and me. That might no longer mean much on the streets these days, but I guess Benjamin and myself are old-fashioned like that."

Morgan was stunned. He had expected a lot of things coming here today, but finding out Hubert had rolled with the Kings certainly hadn't been one of them. It wasn't exactly hard to imagine Hubert as part of a gang. With his his wide frame and powerful personality, Morgan was sure Hubert had been an asset and a force to be reckoned with. And yet, based on his strict aversion to anything gang-related, Morgan had never even considered the possibility.

Now that it was out in the open, it was easy to see how that had been either foolish or incredibly short-sighted of him. People always had history, and when that history was connected to anything near Sunnyvale, people were bound to have come into contact with the game. Somehow, Morgan had simply assumed that Hubert had been born with a enmity to gang life, the way that people often assumed that persons they admired had always made the right choices and known the right answers. A part of Morgan was disappointed to find out that this wasn't the case with Hubert. There always had been something comforting in the unyielding certainty that the bar owner had displayed, a moral standard that one could adhere and flock to. It didn't really lessen Morgan's opinion of the man, but it certainly made the world seem less structured and more confusing.

At the same time, Morgan was glad for similar reasons. Through his admittance, Hubert had stepped off the pedestal that Morgan had put him on. He no longer was that unattainable moral instance that Morgan could look up to, but never hope to reach for himself. Now, he was just a man, and one who had apparently once made the same choice that Morgan had, even if he now thought of it as wrong. It put them on even ground in the matter.

They talked for quite a while. About shattered dreams and ambition, the lay of the land, the game and what price needed to be paid to play it. They talked about beginnings, how the Vice Kings had formed around Benjamin King, back in the day when Los Carnalez reigned supreme on the streets, slowly choking the life out of Sunnyvale and adjacent districts. Hubert tried to tell it in a way that stressed how in the end little was solved, how many people ended up dying for nothing but corners, reputation and pride, but ultimately, even he could not keep a certain fondness from his voice. To Morgan, it all sounded glorious; not because of the fighting, but because it all just echoed with identity and purpose in a way that Morgan had never known in his own life. He envied Hubert for having lived in that time, for getting together the boys of the hood to take back their neighborhood for themselves. It sounded like a romantic rebellion against some tyrannical outer force, although even Morgan knew enough of the game to doubt that it truly had been all white knights standing up for each other and the community they lived in. Still, it sounded better than what was happening right now.

There also was Benjamin King himself. There was regret in Hubert's voice when he talked about the legendary leader of the Vice Kings, but it also became clear just how much he still respected, maybe even adored the man. King might have been misguided in his ambitions as far as Hubert was concerned, but that left aside, Hubert painted a vivid picture of a man with vision and an indomitable will; of someone who was born to lead, who valued the men under him and had never shied away from getting his hands dirty himself. It made Morgan anxious, and he wondered whether he would actually ever have the chance to meet that man.

He clung to anything that Hubert told him, no matter whether it was about the gang's history, about living the life, or the people Hubert had run with back in the day. Ultimately, though, it all led up to the same, inevitable question:

"So why did you quit?"

The question hovered in the silence that followed it. Hubert had fallen quiet, his gaze trailing off into the void, the eyes glazed over with the sheen of old memories and pain. A part of him seemed to whither away then and there. The lines in his face grew deeper, and the aura of almost palpable strength faded away until all Morgan saw before him an old and worn out man. The sight almost broke his heart.

"You always tell yourself that you're only in it up to a certain point," Hubert began tentatively, his voice barely above a whisper. "Whenever someone close to you gets gunned down or gutted like a fish, you vow that you will find a way to get out before the same thing happened to you or another friend. You begin to bargain. Just until this thing is over, just until you have enough money so your family will never want for anything, just until you had the chance to pay that one person back for saving your life more often than you can count."

Hubert paused. "It never ends, my boy, and ultimately it isn't worth it. There is nothing wrong with enjoying a simple life, and the quiet comforts it can bring. Honest to god, I have never been more content with my life than since I managed to get out. Maybe, you will live long enough to discover the same thing. I hope that you do."

Later, Morgan left the Sea Roses feeling thoughtful and strangely out of sync with himself. He was torn, his old life and his new yet again pulling at him with doubts and hopes that brought him close to despair; to being ripped in two. He had expected the meeting with Hubert to make him feel guilty about joining the gang, but the reality was much worse than the mere disappointment of a good friend's expectations. Hubert had imparted upon him the wisdom of his life's experience, and the thought of spitting in the face of such a gift irked Morgan more than he was able to put into words.

Still, the longer he thought about it, the more holes he found in Hubert's argument. His situation and Morgan 's could hardly have been more different. For one, Morgan was much older than Hubert had been when he joined the Kings. He wasn't some naive, easily impressed teenager lured into the life with talk of stepping up against the tyranny of the Carnalez. He knew what he was getting into, and harbored no illusions about the amorality of it. He also wasn't into it to provide for a family he no longer had, despite the fact that he was still sending Markayla money. His own reasons, by comparison, were utterly selfish in nature, and despite his argument, Hubert barely had had a bad word to say about Benjamin King; quite the opposite in fact. When the person in question was a feared and notorious criminal, surely that counted for something. Surely, if anyone, such a man was the one Morgan would be able to follow willingly?

Even Hubert's talk about the joys of a simple, honest life was ultimately flawed. Sure, the Sea Roses was no exclusive high class restaurant, but it was by far the nicest bar in the immediate vicinity. Hubert sure as hell didn't earn the money for all that doing honest work in Shivington or the Gardens. No, his money from running with the Kings had certainly flowed into that enterprise. So what was he suggesting Morgan did to build himself a simple existence like that? Keep serving drinks at his bar, and go back to driving cabs and getting insulted in front of clubs for doing this job? The thought alone was enough to work Morgan into a fury. No, for better or worse, he would see this through. Hubert might have decided that this life was not for him, but Morgan was his own man, and it sure as hell couldn't be worse than the life he had been living up to this point.

He had walked for several blocks by the time he had renewed his resolve. It felt as if he awoke from an angry trance, and just then regained awareness of his surroundings. He took a deep breath, then considered walking to the nearest bus stop. But with the money situation being what it was and no job to arrive late to, he eventually just shrugged and kept on walking. Deep down, a small part of him wondered whether he had already started bargaining.

* * *

 **A** sizable crowd had gathered within the shadows of the tower that Rooch operated out. At the heart of it were just under a dozen people wearing yellow and poorly concealed guns about their persons, awaiting Rooch's arrival. The rest of the crowd had gathered around the Vice Kings in a respectable distance; yard-boys, hobos and crackheads all just there because they had nothing better to do with their time and wanted to see what was up. So far the gang members weren't really doing much of anything, just hanging, talking and smoking, but despite the relative inactivity, Morgan could not help but feel as if they were putting on some kind of show for the benefit of an audience.

It was still a couple of hours before noon, the day bright and sunny. Morgan had arrived early to the meeting, but as more and more of the senior members had arrived, he had moved further back to stand with the rest of the freshly canonized members. The girl Keisha gave him a slightly reserved nod, while the boy Tips once again greeted Morgan with a fist bump. The boy's eagerness was a bit strange, Morgan thought, but also disarming and endearing in a childlike sort of fashion. Somehow, it managed to make Morgan feel appreciated without having done anything worthwhile. He bumped the kid again, unable to keep himself from smiling as he did. A few of the other boys followed suit, but the fist bumps were casual and matter-of-factly, little more that the nod Keisha had given him.

Rooch took his sweet time before he arrived, striding out of the tower's entrance with as much purpose as a general appearing before his troops. Four more men accompanied him, two on each side, representing the inner circle of his crew. Darnell was one of them.

Rooch had dressed up for the occasion. He had decided to go bare-chested, showing off his muscular chest that was barely visible under a veritable blanket of black ink. Darker still was the shining black leather coat that he wore, freshly oiled and obviously brand new. As were the matching pants. It made the golden handcannon tugged into the seam stand out all the more prominent. To set off all that black leather, Rooch had wrapped a yellow bandana tightly around his head. It doubtlessly made him look fierce, but Morgan thought it as a little bit much. Even without a tricorn and eyepatch, it made Rooch look like he was some sort of pretentious urban pirate. If they searched hard enough, they surely would even find a parrot within the towers to perch upon Rooch's shoulder and cry out for cookies. The thought brought a brief smile to Morgan's face.

Rooch remained on top of the small set of stairs that led up the building's entrance. It created a small stage for him, allowing him to look far and wide while forcing his crew as well as the spectators to look up at him. Simple, but effective. When he raised his hand, the court square went quiet, starting with the Vice Kings in front of him and quickly spreading to all the spectators. Morgan crossed his arms. Apparently, it was time to listen.

"Yo my niggas." Rooch called, his voice was deep but not particular strong. "I gonna make dis short. Word come down, and we gonna move back on da row. We lost good people de otha night, I know dat shit, but we also was de last ones standin'."

He slapped Darnell on the shoulder. "So we don't have no reason to fear 'dose fuckers from de Rollerz and Los Carnalez, an' we gonna show dem dat we aren't afraid to get som' blood on us for dis shit. Now listen, niggas, dis is what we gonna do: Them new baby faces are gonna work dose corners of de Row, show all dat de Kings be 'ere to stay! 'Dey want to come at us? We gonna make sure dey know where t' find us!"

The Vice Kings cheered in agreement, thrusting their fists into the air or puffing themselves up in eager anticipation of the next battle. at least the senior members did. The newer ones were gravely silent, exchanging doubt- and fearful glances. It was obvious they didn't like the sound of Rooch's plan so far. Seeing the lack of enthusiasm of that particular portion of his men, Rooch erupted into laughter.

"Geez, jus look at all 'dem fresh faces, almost shittin' demselves. Relax! We're not gonna let ya walk in dere all by yourself. What de fuck do ya take me for? In fact, ya have de easy part of dis whole thing. While yu be doin' nothin' but stand around all day, lettin' the people know we mean business, de rest of us will be busy lockin' down all streets leadin' into the district. Not one red or blue motherfucker steps foot into de Row dat day, ma word on dat. I also talked to some crews up north. Dey gonna help us put some pressure on dat Westside bitches. Now how does dat sound?"

Once again, the Vice Kings cheered, not as eagerly individually but with some of the fresh blood joining in this time. Others, including Morgan, kept quiet. He wasn't quite sure what reasons the others had, but he for one wasn't quite convinced the plan would work. He voiced his concerns before he even realized it, too absorbed in tactical considerations to care about whether it was his place to speak out or not.

"What about local players?" he asked. "The other night it weren't just the Rollerz and Carnalez giving us grief. There was also someone else, wearing purple. I have seen that color more and more around the Row these days. And what about those Rollerz and Carnalez already in the district when you arrive? You gonna flush them out before you lock things down? Otherwise there might be little point to it."

Even as he talked, it slowly dawned on Morgan that he had made a mistake. Darnell almost instantly shook his head at him, urging him with his flaring eyes to shut up, but the words kept tumbling out of Morgan's mouth. Many of the Vice kings turned around and stared at him as he proceeded. Some merely seemed surprised or curious, but the majority of them looked rather offended or even outraged that a newcomer dared to question Rooch in this manner at his first meeting.

Rooch himself certainly seemed to think so. His face had darkened as he listened to Morgan's concerns. Then, before Morgan knew it, the gang leader had jumped off the stairs and cleared a path to him.

"Well, if it ain't our good lil' Samaritan from de Row," he sneered. Once again, the strong odor of too much aftershave assaulted Morgan's nose. "Lemme ask ya somethin'. How long yu been part of dis crew?"

Morgan hesitated. The violent humming underlining Rooch's words was all too obvious.

"I didn't — " he muttered, but Rooch immediately cut him off. "Somethin' esle, 'den. Yu some kind of expert on 'dese things? Been with de military, maybe? Or with de cops!?"

Morgan staggered backwards under the aggressive verbal assault. Feverishly, he tried to come up with something that would defuse the situation. But Rooch was out for blood, and when he asked whether Morgan was police, Morgan realized his life might very well have been in danger.

"What!? No!" he cried.

Rooch's hands exploded against him, shoving him and sending him tumbling to the ground.

"'Den shut da fuck up, mothafucka!"

Rooch's fists were trembling as he fought to contain an even greater outburst. He kept struggling for another second, then the rage miraculously vanished, retreating within the blink of an eye to once more prowl beneath the surface. Rooch smiled, a mad, demonic grimace of a grin that sent a cold shiver down Morgan's spine. For a moment there, he was sure we was about to die. But Rooch turned around and walked back up his stairs, chuckling and shaking his head in response to some joke only he appeared to have heard.

"Local players, wearin' purple," he muttered in contempt. "What kin' of faggot chooses fuckin' purple foa a crew?"

When he reached the top of the stairs, he gave Darnell a long, hard look.

"Betta keep a leash on ya boy."

Morgan rose just in time to see the look Darnell was throwing in his direction. He looked even angrier than Rooch had just seconds ago. Morgan cringed inwardly.

The meeting was concluded fairly quickly after that. The gathered Vice Kings split up into groups to be given more detailed instructions by Rooch's lieutenants. For Morgan and the other new members, that person turned out to be Darnell. He led them around the side of the tower to half-empty parking lot. All better spots, it seemed, were reserved for the more experienced squads. Darnell didn't even so much as look at Morgan as he moved past.

Then it was straight down to business. The new soldiers, six in all, were divided into pairs. Each of these pairs was assigned a particular corner to hold down. Darnell stressed that it was all about representing and respect for the time being. There would be no actual working the corners until they were sure they had the Row firmly under their control. The pairing process itself was determined by nothing else but Darnell's personal judgment. Morgan ended up being partners with Keisha. He wouldn't have actually minded that, but when Darnell added a sardonic "because ya two deserve each other" to the announcement, Morgan started seeing it as the insult that it was intended to be. After that, he minded very much.

With only six men, it was of course quite impossible to man even a fraction of the corners on the Row, especially if they moved around in pairs. Darnell told them to move around a bit, and to focus on the area where the last shooting had taken place. He entrusted Morgan with making sure they didn't stray too far from the area, as he knew those corners better than any other member of the crew. Morgan was pleased by having his expertise recognized, even if it was only knowing the neighborhood he lived in. Under the special circumstances, he also appreciated the chagrin with which Darnell made that call.

As far as transportation was concerned, the Vice Kings' had organized a ride for them; an old Compton convertible with the mandatory yellow paint job. Morgan guessed it had most likely belonged to one of the fellows who got shot the other day. Darnell threw him the keys and told him to drive. Fitting six people into the car proved to be somewhat of a challenge. Keisha reacted fast and called shotgun, jumping in onto the passenger seat. The rest of the boys tried to squeeze themselves onto the back seat. A couple of minutes and several groans and curses later, the bickering gangers were no closer to a solution than before. At that point, Morgan stepped in, putting his foot down using his newfound authority of being the driver. Unlucky Tips ended up going into the trunk. The little fellow moped and argued, but ultimately, Morgan got his way.

Their first official mission as Vice Kings could finally begin.

* * *

" **G** et me out of here, damn it!" the muffled voice caused a brief smile to wash over the gathered faces. Morgan had steered the yellow Compton to a halt on a small lot adjacent to one of their designated corners. The drive had passed without any incident, and the Row lay quiet around them, even though Morgan wasn't sure what brought him to that conclusion. His common sense was telling him that everything was as it always was, no more nor less lively than the neighborhood usually was at this time of day. But he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. It drove him crazy, until he realized that what was wrong with the Row was merely an illusion created by his own paranoia. Deep down, he was expecting for the neighborhood to make some kind of reaction to his joining of the Vice Kings. Maybe he even yearned for it. He no longer was just a person living here. He had donned a new shirt and had come to help conquer the Row for his new family. In a way, it made him feel like a turncoat; a traitor whose greed had driven him to betray those who his allegiance naturally should have belonged to. Of course, he was expecting the Row to react badly to this.

The fact that he felt this way did not keep him from recognizing the foolishness of the notion. He hadn't been born on the Row. When it came down to a sense of belonging, Morgan felt he had just as much in common with the folk from Shivington than he had with people from the Row. Probably even more than that. Besides, he was not taking the Row away from its people. They would all be able to stay. The only question was what color its streets would bleed in the future. Red, blue or yellow. It would have to be one of the three.

Or purple, came a voice from the back of his head. Morgan tried to dismiss it. Even if he was right about another crew forming up, what chance could such a crew have against the Vice Kings or one of the other big players? For some reason, he left the question stand unanswered in his head.

"What the fuck, people!? I'm suffocating in here!"

Morgan's mind snapped back to the present. Tips had begun to bang impatiently against the trunk's hatch. The others tried to suppress their laughter, and Morgan had a hard time as well. It was a cruel joke at the youngster's expense, but in this instance, Morgan felt that the immediate benefits outweighed the drawbacks. The prospect of their first mission had left all of them nervous and tense. Forced, formulaic conversations and long lapses of uncomfortable silence had made that abundantly clear during their ride over. They needed the relief, even if it meant preying on one of their own.

Eventually, Morgan decided that it was enough, and opened the hatch. The laughter of the others rose one last time as Tips scrambled out of the Compton's trunk, throwing baleful glances at them all.

"Not cool," was his displeased verdict. He didn't push the issue, though. He knew it would have been in vain. Morgan appreciated that minimum of insightfulness.

The others kept throwing idle jests at Tips for a while, but the flow of the taunts decreased almost as quickly as their quality, giving way to ever growing periods of tense, crushing silence. They were stalling, and they all knew it, doing their very best to draw out each taunt as much as possible. Once again, Morgan was made painfully aware of just how young these kids were. It added an additional layer of wrongness on top of everything else. Maybe it shouldn't have been his problem, but one second later - just like that - it was. He took responsibility for them, and once there, there was no easy way out of it again. The image of an empty, brightly painted room back at home flashed up deep within him. The pain soared hot and high, and Morgan sighed. He really should have learned his lesson by now. But maybe - just maybe - this time he wouldn't fail.

The words just started to pour out of him. Bits of information he deemed useful. He told them to check their guns, ensuring they all knew how to handle one and what to do in case of a jam. He also told them about the Row, letting them memorize the fastest way from their corner to the others, as well as several places they could try and seek shelter in should things go south. He handed out his number, telling them to call him if anything was up, and to check in every half hour or so to make sure the others were all right.

None of the others objected to any of this. They eyed him somewhat curiously at first, but the longer he went on, the more he felt them accepting his taking charge. He was proud of that. More than that; it felt right, as if this was what he was meant to do. Even if it was just this small rag-tag crew of yellow grunts. They listened to him, and that made him into somebody. Somebody of worth.

Over the next hour, all that quiet glory slowly wasted away. They had taken up their positions, standing on the designated corners, doing what they were told, representing, hanging, doing nothing. No really, they were doing nothing. Every second stretched out almost indefinitely, taunting and tormenting them as they loitered on the curb. People passed them by, similarly taunting them by flinging their sense of purpose provided by having a destination unabashedly in their faces. Even the old lady watching them from her second floor window, a fat cat tugged under the arm, seemed to possess more purpose than Morgan and Keisha did in that moment. The old hag could at least pretend she was watching something interesting.

Morgan was not cut out for this. He was tense and fidgety, prowling the sidewalk like a caged animal, constantly feeling like there was something he should be doing. He had never thought of himself as a workaholic, but with the work around the house, working out and juggling several jobs, he hadn't been able to afford periods of wasteful idleness in his life. Now it looked like in his new life, that was all there was to it. For the tenth time, he resisted the urge to kick over a trash bin.

Keisha, by comparison had the hanging part all figured out. After the first couple of minutes, she had simply sat down on one of the staircases leading up to a building's entrance. She stretched out, bracing herself on her elbows, one foot firmly planted on the first step, the other leg dangling freely across it. Her jaw moved methodically as she chewed away on a piece of gum, her eyes scanning her surroundings with an air of pronounced disinterest. She was bored and not giving a shit, and she was bold enough to let it show.

Morgan still thought she looked too tomboyish with the short hair beneath that baseball cap of hers and the loose-fitting shirt and clothing, but the way she sat on those stairs, putting a languid arrogance on display for all the world to see, Morgan caught himself considering her as a woman for the first time. The twitch of attraction he felt both confused and irritated him. For one, there was the considerable age difference, and that alone should have been more than enough for his dick to stand down. But worse was in fact how much not thinking about Keisha as a woman simply because of shorter hair and a pair of baggy pants made him feel like a walking cliche of stupid masculine machismo. He had considered himself better than that.

No longer comfortable within the confines of his own mind, he tried to focus on the task at hand. Even if it wasn't much of a task. He looked around. As far as the Row went, the intersection wasn't anything special. Old buildings, slightly cracked tarmac, soiled sidewalks and alleyways. The regular urban mess. Many of the shop windows were either empty or boarded up, leaving the people living here only with the barest necessities, and sometimes not even that. The whole neighborhood was in pretty bad shape, not quite ruinous yet, but heavenly tinged by sense of impending desolation. The only thing that was able to thrive in this downtrodden environment seemed to be the few trees lining the streets, but even they had a stunted and somewhat pathetic look to them. Or maybe they hadn't. Maybe they just kind of faded into everything else. Morgan wasn't able to tell the difference any more.

The more he tried to stay alert and focused, the more the Row blended together into single, uneventful blur or faint familiarity that dulled the sharpness of his senses and invited his mind to wander. Morgan resisted for as long as he could, but ultimately, his struggle was futile. Bit by bit, he started to succumb to the mind-numbing haze of boredom.

* * *

 **W** hen gunfire and screeching tires cut through the air nearby, Morgan merely blinked. He was so far gone that he actually thought he might just have imagined it. Only when the guns kept barking, followed by frantic cries, did his mind snap back into reality. His eyes flared wide open.

Jumping to his feet, Morgan reached for his phone. Three times had the other pairs checked in, and each time reported nothing of importance. Morgan himself had called two additional times, mostly as a way to pass a few precious additional seconds of this neverending nightmare. Both times, the calls had been answered quickly. Clearly, the others were just as happy as he was to do something other than standing around on some random corners. Hitting the speed dial he had set up, Morgan prayed that it would be the exact same this time.

It wasn't.

Morgan let the phone rang. a dozen times, but no one answered. Cursing, Morgan hung up and switched to the second number. Beside him Keisha was on her feet now too, gun drawn and eyes darting back and forth between Morgan and the streets that suddenly had lost all their desirable sense of boredom. The phone started ringing. Once, twice, thrice. Then, instead of a voice on the other end, they heard more gunfire, much closer this time.

Morgan ducked out of reflex, and Keisha yelped and brought up her gun. It took both of them a second to realize that they weren't the ones being shot at, but the realization offered them little relief. Their eyes darted to the corner and the adjacent street at whose opposite end Tips and a boy named Zachariah were supposed to be.

Please no, Morgan thought, feeling how his stomach turned cold.

He started running. He didn't think; not about whether it was safe or smart, not about whether he should have headed for the car or whether he should have drawn his gun. all he knew were that people that had looked to him were in possible danger, and he needed to get there, get there fast. So he ran, heading straight for the sound of lethal violence. The twisted trees, the old houses and toppled trash cans, they all flew by as he chased down the sidewalk like there was no tomorrow.

As soon as he reached the corner, he could see the terrible truth of what was happening. A purple Venom classic had pulled up to the corner, the long smooth curves of its front, the sparkling paint and absent roof contrasting starkly with the sober realities of the Row. A gunner had risen in the passenger seat, a gauge-12 braced against his hip, click-clacking resoundingly as the handgrip was pumped back and forth, and booming as it released another hail of deadly pellets.

For a moment, Morgan dared to hope. Surely, if they were still firing, his people were still alive, and he wasn't already too late. Then he spotted Zachariah's lifeless body, sprawled out on the sidewalk, riddled with a multitude of holes.

The emotions that welled up inside him hit like a punch to the gut. Morgan gasped, staggered, roared in frustration and almost fell then and there. He was too late. He had failed them. Again. The thought was unbearable. But even as part of him gave in to despair, ready to give up, he caught sight of Tips. Somehow, the youngster was still alive, holed up behind a green sedan, cowering and holding on to the handgun that looked way too big in his hands. It was him that the gunner in the Venom was still shooting at.

The transformation in Morgan was instantaneous. The despair he felt vanished. A part of it retreated below the surface. The rest hardened and transformed into murderous rage. With one big step, Morgan broke his fall. He righted himself, and started running again. Somehow, his gun found its way into his hands, and then he was firing, burning through the magazine. Another pistol chimed in, and with a detached sense of acknowledgment Morgan realized that Keisha must have followed him. It mattered not. He kept firing.

The gunner swept towards them, chambering another slug, but two of the dozen bullets squeezed off by the Vice Kings tore into him, and he went down. The driver of the Venom cursed loudly as his friend collapsed into the seat beside him, his head darting back and forth between him and the charging Vice Kings, obviously torn between two the impulses to flee and to fight. He cursed again and then stepped onto the gas. Tires screeched, the engine howled, and the Venom leapt forward, down the street and towards Morgan and Keisha. They both emptied the rest of their mags, shattering part of the windshield and punching several holes into the car's body, but it still came on.

Morgan's weapon clicked emptily about the time the Venom surged right past him. Morgan spotted the driver as he flashed by. He was asian, with a lean, chiseled face, sunglasses and black and white-dyed hair. And he was smiling, an arrogant, smug grin as his hand snaked out to take aim at Morgan.

Morgan froze. His eyes widened, his entire body tensing up, taking what Morgan feared would be his last breath. He blinked, and after the eternity that was the millisecond his eyes took to switch from the driver's face and to his outstretched hand, Morgan found himself of the receiving end of not a gun but merely a cocky finger-pistol that rocked back to deliver an invisible bullet of mockery. Then the Venom was past him, speeding on past Keisha and darting around the corner.

Morgan had no inclination to try and follow. He was still frozen, staring into empty air, as if he was waiting for something, but didn't know what. He had no sense of his own body. All his anger was gone. He didn't feel anything safe for an unpleasant tinkling, concentrating into a shiver that traveled down his spine. When his legs gave way and he sank to his knees, the gun slipping from his hand, it all felt hazy and distant, as if he wasn't really there. Maybe he wasn't. His mind was reeling, trying to come to terms with how close he had just gotten to eating a bullet. He couldn't stop seeing it, the empty hand, just pointing at him. How easily it could have been a gun. By all rights, it should have been a gun, and his brain should have been splattered all over the next wall. Awkwardly, he turned to look at Zachariah's sprawled out body. _That could have been me_ , he thought.

Somebody was shouting at him, some feminine, panicky voice, but it was even further away than his own body. A hand reached for him, shaking him, but Morgan couldn't be bothered to deal with it. The hand. He just kept seeing the hand, rocking back. Again and again. He would have remained in some stupor for a good while longer, but something exploded against his cheek, and the jarring sensation finally proved enough to pull him back into the present.

"Get a fuckin' hold of yourself!" Keisha cried into his ear. "We need to get out of here."

Morgan winced. His hand rose to cover his flaring cheek, and for a moment he looked at Keisha with the shocked, confused composure of a frightened six year old. He blinked a few times, still coming to, but already before he was fully there, he saw how scared Keisha herself was. Her entire body was taunt as a bowstring, constantly on the verge of shaking with tension. Her lips were pressed tightly together, the eyes wide open and full of panic and bewilderment.

Morgan hauled himself to his feet, shaking off the rest of his daze as his protective instinct took over. With a calmness he didn't know where it came from, he put a hand to Keisha's shoulder and looked deeply into her eyes, nodding.

"Thanks, I needed that. It is all going to be all right, I promise. Come on."

It was obvious that Keisha had trouble believing him. It was written all over her face. She wasn't one to give trust easily, and a natural skeptic of anything remotely resembling heroic behavior. But right in this moment, she was also a scared teenager that had just gone through hell, and the need for comfort and the illusion of safety outweighed the one to remain fiercely independent of any would be protector. She sighed, and a great amount of tension fell of her, glad that somebody else had taken over responsibility again.

Together, they rushed towards their friends. For Zachariah, all help came too late. He was dead, his torso ripped to shreds by the shotgun's pellets. His face looked strangely calm and settled, and not a gaping, twisted visage of horror and pain. He looked as if the way he had met his end hadn't really come as a surprise to him. Somehow, Morgan found that to be unbearably sad. He knelt down, and gently closed Zachariah's eyes.

 _Day one_ , he thought, sniffing as the sorrow rose to wash over him in surging waves of impotence and guilt. Day one, and already he needed to bury someone. Not somebody close to him, not even someone he really had known anything about, but somebody just like him. Somebody who had just joined the Vice Kings, looking for god-knew-what in his life. Instead, he had found only a shortcut into an early grave. _How long_? He asked himself. How long until somebody would be staring down on his lifeless corpse like that? He wanted to say 'never', that he was never going to end up like that, but he couldn't quite muster the conviction to believe it.

All his fears and doubts, everything he had buried deep inside and refused to feel threatened to break loose. The only thing that kept it all from coming tumbling down in this moment was Tips. The boy had all but collapsed against the car he had sought cover behind, his eyes big and teary and quivering as he stared at his partner's dead body. The gun that had slipped from his shaking hands lay uselessly on the sidewalk. Morgan glanced at the weapon.

The safety was still on.

Instantly, the aching of his heart increased tenfold, wrestling a husky moan of regret from his lips. He closed his eyes, unable to bear the sight of it. Zachariah had never stood a chance, he realized. It wasn't enough that they had been ambushed, but the one person that was supposed to back him up had apparently done nothing of the sort, leaving the boy to be gunned down like some animal on a hunting trip. Now he was gone, and Tips wasn't, and somehow he would have to find a way to deal with that. There was no denying it and no playing it down. Tips had failed his partner in crime, and Morgan could not help but to bite of a healthy chunk of that for himself. He had failed in his own way. Again.

But he didn't have time to beat himself up about it. Oh no, the next weeks and months doubtlessly would provide plenty opportunity for that, but first they needed to make it through the day. They couldn't stay in the Row. Not after what had happened. Morgan tried again to call the other boys. After several rings, he settled into the crushing reality that they were most likely dead as well. Three out of six. Half of them. He was going to be sick.

Morgan also decided that while they needed to leave the Row as fast as possible, he didn't feel comfortable making a run for it with as little firepower as they had. If the crew in purple returned, they would need much more than pistols to keep them at bay. With his house being only a few streets away and still harboring a duffel bag with a K6 Krukov, Morgan decided to make a quick stop. It was far from ideal, both because of the risk of being followed as well as letting his fellow gangers know where he lived, but given the circumstances, Morgan concluded that he would rather be alive today than a corpse with undisturbed privacy tomorrow.

Dragging Tips with them, they ran back to the Compton, jumped in and took off. The ride to Morgan's house took them three to four minutes tops, but with all the paranoid glances they threw around and the constant checking of the mirrors for potential pursuers, it felt way longer than that. The Row had never been a place to feel utterly safe in, but before it had always felt like home or at least familiar turf. Now it felt like a deathtrap that they were caught in. Everything was different and suddenly alien, even his home. There was no sense of familiarity as he entered through the front door, no inner relief or feeling of entering the kind of sanctuary a person's home was supposed to be for himself. On the positive side, he also didn't experience the avalanche of depression that usually greeted him alongside those feelings. Ironically, he caught himself missing that emotional punch to the gut. Without it, this was not his home, and he was not himself. He was just a gang-banger collecting a bag.

Which was just what he did. In and out and back into the car. Quick and quiet. He would be able to think about his fragile emotional state of mind once he no longer needed to urgently worry about getting shot. Then they drove, long minutes of depressed, highly tensed silence, counting every second that brought them closer to the invisible border that marked the border of the district. They were half-way there when Morgan finally thought of calling Darnell and letting him know what had happened, as well as where they were heading.

He had half expected to get angry and snap at him, to find a way to make all of this his fault. But for once, Morgan and Darnell thought alike, and deemed it most important to get their remaining people to safety. Ten minutes later, their yellow Compton was silently joined by two more yellow cars that had waited on the edge of the Row to lock it down. Morgan had never been happier to see someone, and they all shared an audible sigh of relief. Escorted this way, they made it out of the Row without further incident. And so Morgan once again fled the Row to seek shelter in Shivington, his first official mission now officially a total mess.

* * *

 **R** ooch wasn't happy. Putting it like that was like saying that an erupting volcano was somewhat warm. More accurately would have been to say that Rooch was indeed fuming like an active volcano.

Morgan and Darnell were in his apartment, seated on an enormous white leather couch as its owner paced up and down the room like a caged animal.

"How 'de fuck did 'dis happen?" He demanded to know. "Where did 'dese bastards come from!?"

Morgan had grown wiser over the course of the day. He kept quiet, resisting to point out that he had basically warned Rooch of this very thing. It didn't help. Rooch continued his mad ramblings for a while, then abruptly whipped around to face Morgan, his eyes lighting up in sudden revelation.

"You!" he growled, raising his finger accusingly. "Yu knew about 'dese guys. Who are 'dey? How can we find 'dem? Oh, I'll show 'dem. I'll show 'dem good. Nobody messes with 'de Kings!"

Morgan waited anxiously for a pause in which to reply. He glanced desperately at Darnell, but is his old friend registered it, he gave no sign of it. Rooch cursed and swore on, pacing around the room once more until he had finally exhausted his extensive repertoire. Then, he turned towards Morgan again, suddenly realizing that he hadn't gotten an answer to his question yet. He took offense at that as well.

"What's 'de matter with ya? Ya deaf? I fuckin' asked ya a question!"

Under different circumstances, Morgan probably would have forgotten the original question by now, but with Rooch raging around the room, all Morgan had done throughout Rooch's ravings had been carefully rehearsing what he would say next. He hadn't escaped from the Row just to be bludgeoned to death by his own people. He tried real hard not to think too much about how wrong it felt to consider Rooch 'his people'.

"I don't know anything about them," he said, doing his best to keep his voice even. "The guy trying to shoot the other night wore purple, and I saw people wearing the color more often. That's all."

"That's all," Rooch aped, then sneered. "Ya'r fuckin' useless!"

Again, Morgan bit back his angry reply. As long as Rooch was insulting him, he wasn't busy beating his face to pulp or pumping him full of bullets, he figured. The rest was just words, and words he could endure. Hell, after the day he was having, mere insults did hardly register as something to be bothered by.

He didn't have to weather through it for long. When it finally dawned on Rooch that Morgan did indeed held very little insights into the identity of the new players on the Row, Morgan was told to get lost, leaving Rooch and Darnell to plan their next move. He was only too happy to comply.

Keisha, Tips and himself had been offered to crash in one of the apartments in the tower. It wasn't much, a shabby rundown place with battered and torn furniture, but Morgan was nevertheless grateful for it. The thought of heading back to the Row right now was about as attractive to him was walking into an active mine field. He didn't know how Keisha and Tips felt on the matter, but when he returned from his meeting with Rooch, they were still there, and so they obviously were not too eager to return to their homes as well.

Keisha had drawn back into the single bedroom and occupied the creaking bed, headphones plugged into her ears and starring blankly at the ceiling. Tips was in the small living room, sprawled out on the couch with the faded floral pattern. He had pulled up the hood of his hoodie, his face only lit up by the faint glow of the phone he was playing with. Neither of them so much as looked up when he checked in on them.

On the surface, their behavior might have seemed similar, but Morgan was more worried about Tips. Keisha was rattled, he thought, but she seemed somewhat settled, almost seasoned in her numbness, as if she was used to being in this kind of situations, which was pretty concerning by itself. With Tips, however, Morgan got the impression that he was still in shock, and he had no idea how to handle that. He still hadn't addressed the issue with the gun. Morgan considered himself to be a fairly emphatic person, and his time behind the bar at the Sea Roses had left him somewhat used to listening to peoples' problems and giving some sort of advice, but providing comfort to young people who had just been through a gunfight and had seen somebody die right next to them was still firmly situated outside of his comfort zone. The thought that he himself had been through the same thing and might have been in need of help himself didn't occur to him then. All he knew was that something needed to be done.

"Want me to call anyone?" He asked.

Tips shook his head without looking up. His eyes remained plastered to the little display resting in his hands. Morgan tried another angle.

"What about food? Won't be a feast, but I am sure I could find some snacks of something."

A brief moment of hesitation. "Nah."

 _Oh my, this was going well._

"Look Tips, if you want to talk — "

Tips almost jumped at Morgan. "I don't, okay!" he snapped. "Jus' leave me alone, bro."

Something about that reaction irked Morgan. Tips had been through a lot that day, and Morgan recognized that fact, but it's not like Morgan just came back from a day at the beach, and he had basically saved his life. He wasn't expecting some formal recommendation for it, but neither did he have the patience to deal with Tip's bitchy attitude right now.

"We need to talk about it sooner or later," he pressed.

Tips stiffed and shrugged dismissively. "What for?"

"Because at the very least, we need to ensure that it does not happen again."

"It won't."

Morgan crossed his arms. He wasn't convinced at all.

"How do you know?"

At that moment, Tips snapped. His body tensed up and launched into motion, thrashing around in a nervous fit. If Morgan was honest, it looked rather pathetic.

"What the hell do ya want me to say!?" Tips cried. His voice rose into a squeal and broke. "That I messed up? That Zach is dead because of me? Because I couldn't even fuckin' shoot back? Fine, here it is: You're right! Happy now, Morgan? Fuck you. No, really; FUCK YOU!"

Tips was spent, and collapsed in on himself like a poorly fashioned paper volcano, sinking back into the couch. For a moment, he just stared at Morgan with wide, teary eyes, shocked by what had just tumbled out of his mouth. Then he began to sob. Long, wretched sounds that shook his wirily body with spasm-like tremors.

 _There_ , Morgan thought. _It is out._ Maybe it was cruel of him, but even though he felt for the kid, he also felt a weird sense of relief bordering on joy. Maybe it was just glee. In any case, he thought it had needed to come out, for better or worse. At the very least, things would move forward from here.

Morgan was pulled from his thoughts when the bedroom door slammed shut and blotted out Tips's sobs for an instance. Turning around, he stared at the dirty white door that Keisha had just closed. The message was unmistakeable. She wasn't interested in sharing, nor in listening. The odd thing was that all of a sudden Morgan felt like he was parenting two rebellious teenagers. The thought stung, like a betrayal of what he had had once. It also made him feel incredible old and weary. Neither made him feel particularly good about himself. Still, he couldn't simply turn away from the responsibility. He looked back at Tips and the wreck that he day had seen fit to provide him with.

"Now feeling like talking?" he asked softly.

Tips looked at him with reddened eyes and snorted to another sob. His voice dropped to a coarse half-whisper.

"Why do ya keep torturin' me, huh? What's the point? Dude's still dead."

"True, but I am not talking about it for Zack's benefit, but for yours."

"Why?"

The question was asked like an accusation. Morgan shrugged, smiling and putting his hands to his hips.

"Us mustard boys need to stick together. Don't we?"

The small joke wrestled a tiny humph of amusement from the youngster's lungs.

"Yeah, right," he said, then his features fell again. "Better mustard than ketchup, right?"

The bitterness in Tips voice caused Morgan's own smile to dwindle.

"It's not your fault, you know."

"Oh please," Tips sneered. "Don't gimme that crap, bro. Ya can keep that routine to yarself, all right? For I'm not goin' to buy it. I know the truth, okay? I know what I did."

"Which is?"

The question baffled Tips. He struggled for a moment with his own tongue, then said, "I killed Zach."

Morgan only shook his head.

"I did!" Tips insisted. "We got jumped and instead of helpin' out, I fumbled my piece and cowered like a coward while Zach fought and got killed."

"So you made a mistake," Morgan said. "I am not denying that, but you didn't pull the trigger on Zach. The guys in purple did that. And there is no 'you could have' or 'should have' in this. They came, they pulled the trigger and they killed Zach. Period."

"But if I — "

"If you hadn't messed up, you mean? Kid, it was a drive-by. They got the drop on you with a shotgun while you were out in the open. To be honest, I am surprised that even one of you managed to return fire before Zach went down. If you hadn't dropped your gun and dived for cover, you now would be just as dead, and Zach wouldn't be off any better."

Tips had nothing to reply to that. He didn't look happy or relieved. If anything, he looked more miserable than before. Morgan knew that he hadn't convinced him. It was probably way too early for that. But hopefully, he had raised doubt in the narrative that the youngster had begun to construct for himself. He hoped that it would turn out to be enough.

Tips stayed awfully quiet after that. He sunk back into the couch, his face drained and slack, his eyes distant. Morgan thought he had enough for the time being. Wanting to give him some space faced Morgan with a certain predicament. With Keisha having occupied the bedroom and Tips hunkering down in the living room, there wasn't really any place for him to go if you excluded the tiny kitchen and bathroom, which Morgan did. Suddenly, the little apartment that had represented such a welcome refuge earlier in the day felt crammed and inhospitable. For Morgan, who was used to having a place on his own, this lack of space soon became unbearable. He was out of the door within minutes, thinking about what hell of a day it had been. Little did he know that things were about to get worse before they got better.

Somewhere else in Stilwater, somebody was lighting a match.

* * *

 **Disclaimer:** This time at the end of it. First of all, thanks to all of you for sticking with me. I actually was somewhat productive over the course of the last couple of months, but I am woefully behind on typing things up and editing them. Hopefully, I will be able to establish some sort of routine over the next couple of weeks to get some typing up done every day along with the other things that require my attention.

I you want to do me a favor, you could let me know what you think about the way I represent speech of some characters like Rooch. To be honest, I think I am doing a horrendously crappy job, and even if I am not, it does feel totally fake and artificial for me, so I am really considering to turn it back down to dropping the occasional 'g', but nothing more. Other than that, feel free to comment on anything that catches your eye. As always, anything you'd be willing to share would be very much appreciated.


	5. Chapter 5 - Reclamation

**Disclaimer:** Hey guys, it has been a while. The story has actually progressed quite a bit since the last update. I just cannot seem to find the time to type the stuff up and edit it. I apologize for that. The chapters also seem to be getting longer, and I was considering dividing the chapters and making a separate post for each sub-chapter. But for me it all belongs together, and I also don't want to come up with fake sub-chapter titles just in order so the navigation looks good. So for the time being I have simply tried to make the sub-chapters a little more prominent, so people hopefully have a slightly easier time navigating the document when they don't want to go through it in one session. Let me know how it works out. If you want to talk, please feel free to send me a line, or visit our local forum here, which you can find at: forum/The-Third-Street-Authors/128929/. Thanks!

* * *

 **Chapter 5 - Reclamation**

 **C** harred wood, blackened stone and smoldering ashes. It was all that was left. The fire had done a thorough job, raging without relent. It had consumed the entire house, simultaneously destroying a structure, a home and the life that had taken place within.

Seeing the desperation in his face, the officer from the fire department had been especially sympathetic, saying that they did what they could, but that the fire had already progressed too far by the time they arrived.

Morgan barely listened to the man. He couldn't stop starring at the burned out ruin that — until a few hours ago — had been his home, and his grandfathers before that. All his stuff, his furniture, clothes, documents, pictures — all of it was gone. Every single trinket that had reminded him of a better time had been turned to ash by the raging flames. All he had left were the clothes he was wearing, and the contents of a certain duffel bag, lying in some corner of the towers of Shivington. Of all the things in the world, that was what he had managed to save. Things that weren't even his.

When the fireman told him that their investigation wasn't completed, but that his bet was on arson, Morgan's outward reaction was pretty much non-existent. He had known as soon as he had heard about the fire. Not for a second did he believe that this could be a coincidence. Not one day after having a shootout on the Row. Somebody had done this, and Morgan's money was on the same guy who had killed Zach.

After the firemen came the cops. Naturally, to them Morgan claimed having no idea whatsoever who might be behind it and kept rambling about how he had just lost everything. It was his first rodeo with the police, but Morgan knew how he was supposed to play it. He thought he was doing a good job. Probably because he was hardly playing at all. He only wished he would have had something else to wear than the yellow shirt. That way, he might have managed to keep the cops from making the connection, seeing how he was probably too new for them to know about his affiliation yet. But his clothes were all gone, even his old, treasured leather jacket. He had left it at home that night, convinced that he wouldn't be needing it any time soon. It was almost ironic that now he could have used it more than ever. Hopefully, the cops would at least not tell anyone within his personal circle. He wasn't ready for that kind of heat just about now.

Luckily for him, SWPD detective Luciana Garcia seemed more interested in Morgan's new friends than his family and old acquaintances. The attractive, black-haired Latino woman caught on quick when Morgan appeared before her in bright yellow. She asked about his whereabouts and witnesses first, about insurance and whether Morgan could think of anyone who could have done such a thing. She made a quick call after that, and then started peppering him with gang-related questions. She was well informed, especially for a detective from the arson department, asking about the night Darnell got shot, the recent shootout from yesterday, and two or three firefights Morgan hadn't even heard about before her mentioning it. Clearly, arson wasn't what Detective Garcia wanted to do for the rest of her life.

With Morgan denying any connection to either of those events however, there was little she could do at this point. She told him not to leave the city, as if Morgan would have ever thought of doing so – even if he had had a place to go. After that, he was free to return to Shivington. Again. Maybe the last in a long time. Until the insurance came through — if it came through at all — he had little reason to go back to the Row. It was as if his life, his years spent there had been eradicated without a trace, forever expunged from the pages of history. And nobody fucking cared.

It was his depression talking. He knew that, but it didn't make any difference. After the brief high of the initiation into the Vice Kings, his gloomy streak had returned with a vengeance. Hubert had tried to warn him, but had he listened? No. Two days. Two fucking days he was with the Vice Kings now, and what did he have to show for it? One dead kid, two possibly traumatized teenagers and his house with all his possessions burned to the ground. Instead of turning his life around, all he had done was to turn it all to shit.

He fell into a black hole for the rest of the day. Going back to the shitty apartment in the towers, he stayed there, eating and drinking barely anything, numb with despair and self-pity. This time, it was him who occupied the bedroom and locked the door. The others left him to his own devices, which was both what he wanted but also reinforced his sense of abandonment. He did not know whether Keisha and Tips came in at all, nor whether they in fact were doing any better than he did himself. For once, he didn't give a damn.

His fit of desperation lasted for almost seventy-two hours. He didn't change clothes, he didn't shower, and never so much as stepped out of the apartment. Mrs. Jones, a kind old lady down the corridor, brought him food and something to drink twice a day, but that was about the sum of human interaction that he had during that time. Keisha and Tips were gone when he stepped out of his room on the first day, and they didn't return. Neither did Darnell pay him a visit to check up on him. His phone did ring a couple of times, but Morgan never bothered to pick up, too afraid of whom might have been calling.

On the third day, around noon, someone started pounding on the door. Morgan ignored it for a bit, but the banging continued, growing more insistent. Still, it was only when Morgan thought that whoever was on the other side was an inch away from kicking down the door that he rose and went to open it. At that point, he was dressed in nothing but his boxers.

It turned out to be Darnell. He was wearing more black than yellow today; black bandana, black jacket, black pants and only a yellow shirt to mix it up. He didn't look particular sympathetic or worried when Morgan opened the door. It changed quickly once he saw the state that Morgan was in, but not in the way Morgan had expected. Darnell's face fell all right, but it wasn't because of sympathy. Rather, it was surprise that Morgan spotted, mixed with a healthy amount of irritation and disgust.

"Dude, ya're serious?" he asked. "Ya look like shit."

"Thanks for noticing," Morgan replied. "Is there something you want?"

Darnell blinked. "Ya're fuckin' serious," he said again. He leaned forward, as if to convince himself that what he was witnessing was real. "So some guy fucks with ya, and ya just role over and die? Shit, I thought ya would be all up in arms and shit, ready to pound those fuckers into the fuckin' ground. Where is that guy that I saw goin' up against Big Tony like a madman?"

Morgan couldn't believe this guy. Did he really have to spell it out for him? "Oh, gee Darnell, I don't know. In case you haven't noticed, my house just got burned down, and Zach caught a fucking bullet the other day."

To Morgan's surprise, Darnell started laughing. It was a bright and condescending sound that cut like a crude knife through Morgan's self-righteous anger.

"Oh Barnes, ya fuckin' pussy," Darnell cried, still laughing. "I thought ya wanted t' bang? So stop whining like a freakin' woman."

Morgan was stunned, too shocked by Darnell's insults to react. But his anger returned quickly, surging up from within him with twice the intensity.

"You know what? Why don't you take your tough act and all that other shit, shove it up your ass and leave me the fuck alone!"

Darnell's laughter vanished instantly. His eyes narrowed, his face hardened , and he clenched his fists, moving a step forward to confront Morgan.

"Careful, Barnes," he growled. "Ya're forgettin' who ya're talkin' to."

Morgan didn't back down. He was way past caring at this point. He stepped up to Darnell, so close that their heads were almost touching, staring him down.

"Am I? I'm talking to my old pal, who is giving me some shit about toughening up. How about you show me, huh? Why don't you show a pussy like me how tough you are. Still have one good arm left, haven't you?"

Darnell didn't answer. Morgan's challenge rang out and the charged up silence spread until it filled the entire room. Morgan could see the gears in Darnell's head turning. _Give me a reason, motherfucker_ , he prayed. _Just give me a fucking reason_. He was just in the right mood to break something. Or someone.

Maybe Darnell realized this too. The silence was eventually broken by a soft sigh that escaped from his lips. He pulled back, and the aggressiveness flowed out of his posture. A smile appeared on his lips, but Morgan couldn't help but notice that it felt forced, put on for no other reason than to overplay the fact that Darnell was chickening out. Morgan had won, and they both knew it.

"That's more like it," Darnell said, trying to sound casual about it. "Finally showin' some teeth, dawg! That's the man I gonna need." He eyed Morgan up and down. "Not like this, though. Ya need a shower, man, and I'm guessin' some fresh clothes. I'll send someone around, all right?"

Morgan was tempted to simply slam the door into Darnell's face. It would have served him right after the shit he had just given him. Yet from somewhere within, his reason made itself noticed, telling him that it would be wrong to push Darnell too hard. As good as it would have felt, in the long run it would only have hurt him. Not that he expected to have much of a future anyway, but once conceived, the thought could not be un-thought, compelling him to act upon it. It pissed him off to no end, but even that additional aggression was not enough to send him over the edge.

"All right," he said and deflated a little. "Sounds good. Thanks man."

They shook on it. It served both as an agreement to bury the hatchet for the time being, as well as an end to Darnell's visit. He left, and Morgan was allowed to go back to his business of wholeheartedly despising the great steaming pile of shit that he called his life.

He was getting better at it by the hour, too.

True to his word, Darnell's guy showed up a couple of hours later, delivering a duffel bag with some clothes, a few bare necessities, and even a little bit of cash. Morgan was surprised. After confronting Darnell like that, he had half-way expected for Darnell to try and get even by screwing him over with the delivery. But the clothes were clean, if slightly oversized and totally not his style. Not that he was complaining. He was genuinely grateful for the gesture, even though he could not keep himself from noticing that through this little act of charity, Darnell had just more than doubled what Morgan owned. If he was supposed to keep the clothes, that was. It made feeling grateful a little bit harder.

Darnell's man also told him of a place two floors down where they had arranged for him to take a shower. He was given a minute to change, then Darnell's man led him down and showed him where to knock.

Beatrix was obviously either a stripper or a prostitute. Her place was tidy, nice even, and yet Morgan was fairly certain that John's or special clients were received here on a regular basis. Maybe he was prejudiced, but the plastic covers on the couch and bed, as well as the absence of personal items was kind of a tell. It was kind of like walking into a seedy motel, only bigger, cleaner and — as far as Morgan was concerned — with a better taste in style and decoration.

Beatrix treated him with bored indifference. Clearly, the tall woman with her bleached hair wasn't exactly thrilled to have a complete stranger use her shower, but she also didn't regard it as an inconvenience big enough to make a fuzz over. She handed Morgan a towel, showed him the shower, warned him of the shitty, inconsistent water pressure, and finally asked him not to leave a mess. Her tone indicated that she was considering him complying with those request to be a faint hope at best.

That was it. The bathroom door closed, and Beatrix's steps receded down the corridor, losing themselves within the apartment. Morgan was left alone in the unfamiliar room. It was an odd feeling, and Morgan did feel the faint sting of shame, but ultimately there was little he could do about it. He figured that getting it over with was the best he could do at this point.

It was only when the water hit him — dripping and flowing over his face, his broad chest and over his well-toned muscles, washing away the stink and stale sweat of several days — that Morgan realized what a wretched state he had been in. Suddenly, he was ravenous to be clean, and like a mad glutton, he threw himself at the water with frantic, rushed movements, trying to cover as much of his body with the stream as possible. Every time his face resurfaced, he gasped for air, and his hands were roaming his torso in a nervous fit, desperately rubbing and scratching at his skin until it was not only clean, but also tender and raw.

When all was said and done, Morgan felt spent, but also like himself again. He stayed in the shower a while longer, head lowered, one arm braced against the wall, watching the drops launching themselves off the back and side of his head with unblinking eyes. He was way past the point the would have considered polite, but somewhere along the way, he had stopped caring. When he finally did step out of the shower, he made sure to clean up after him as best he could. He got dressed, picking a washed up pair of jeans and an old Skeeter T-shirt from the bag Darnell had sent him, then slipped out without so much as a thank you or good-bye. He doubted Beatrix would mind.

As much as Morgan hated to admit it, Darnell had been right. He had needed this. To leave the apartment, to get cleaned up, simply to get out of the rut he had wallowed in for the last few days. The simple process of taking a long shower had achieved that much, and for a brief while there, Morgan felt better.

The relief lasted exactly for the scarce minute it took him to take the stairs back up to his temporary abode. Even before reaching the actual door, Morgan found himself slowing down. The thought of going back into that hole, that stinking, filthy piece of a shit-hole suddenly filled him with cold, looming dread, as if by simply going in he would get re-infected by all the hopeless desperation with which he himself had filled those rooms from the floor to the ceiling. But even staying on the outside, waiting beyond the threshold, the result was pretty much the same. Where else was he supposed to go? He didn't have a home any more, and the loss of it caused his very soul to ache.

He turned around and fled. There was no other word for it. He rushed down the stairs, out onto the street and into the Compton whose keys nobody had thought of relieving him off. Then he just drove, no destination in mind as long as it was far away from the towers and that particular life-force-sucking wreck of an apartment. His driving was aggressive and reckless. He overtook people in closely timed maneuvers, tailgating them and erupting into hoarse curses and small horn symphonies whenever somebody didn't get out of his way quite fast enough. Even when suffering from exhaustion or sleep deprivation, he had never driven this bad, and he was doing it on purpose, even if he himself was somewhat oblivious of the fact. He was provoking the other drivers, daring them to take offense and challenge him, deep down still searching for a release of all his pent-up frustration.

The good people of Stilwater replied with their usual patience and charm, which meant that each curse and horn-sound was matched with with four or five of their own. Nobody took it to the next stage, though. Nobody confronted Morgan and made it personal. It left Morgan seething, constantly on the edge, and yet not allowing him to unload his rage on one unfortunate scapegoat. His mood was getting darker by the minute.

Whether by habit or sheer coincidence, Morgan ended up heading east. By the time he finally noticed, he was already firmly within the city's red light district. Not intending to push any further towards the Row, he drove around in varying circles for a while, bombarded with the familiar barrage of advertising that were a little bit more bearable during the day, bereft of the stark contrast that nightfall provided.

As he was driving around, he was starting to get aroused. His mind wandered back to Dominique, Tanya and other attractive women he had encountered over the last months. People often said that lust and aggression were closely connected, and starring at all the silhouettes of naked women that the ad-signs sported, Morgan could not help but agree. It wasn't really a transformation that took place within him. His anger didn't become any less intense as the lust slowly built up in him. Instead, it felt like the very emotion simply became aware of another possible outlet.

He didn't want to punch something any less than before. He just realized that he wanted to pound a woman with the same kind of aggressiveness just as hard. By now, his thoughts were running rampant in his head. It was almost grotesque; degrading and destructive and yet life affirming in a twisted sort of way. It troubled Morgan, all of it: To feel this way at all, not to mention the sheer intensity of it. He felt dangerous and out of control, wondering what kind of man feeling this way made him. What he might be capable of.

In a way though, these doubts came as a blessing in disguise. They made him feel more wretched, yes, not only like a complete failure, but also like a dangerous psycho. At the same time, they also served as a source of caution. For the time being, his growing fear of himself kept the anger he was feeling contained.

He was afraid of going to a brothel. Part of him wanted to, to simply blow Darnell's charity money on some whore and dare the world to find a way to torment him more. But his conscience prevailed. It wouldn't have been a good idea. He couldn't trust himself with a woman right now, not when he was alone.

Now, a strip club, that was another matter entirely. Morgan made the decision in the spur of the moment. He was still driving, turning left and right at random, coming out of the underpass into Bavogian Plaza when he saw a big, vacant parking lot in front of one of the clubs.

Seen from the street, the place looked almost as inconspicuous as the King's Court, only less rundown. The upper two stories were of a bright featureless gray, dirtied by time and with four windows per floor. Below that line, the building did not have any windows, and the walls turned to a darker gray, with columns that shared the texture of the upper stories. Only the big, tiled stripe of red going around the building, as well as the fact that it stood free of any adjacent buildings at the waterfront, hinted at the fact that something more had to be going on with that place.

The clubs actual entrance lay toward the waterfront. There, above a roofed portal, two symmetric pink neon signs showed the silhouette of a naked, writhing woman, as well as sporting the clubs name in big, bold letters. TEENAY was always considered one of Stilwater's more refined establishments. Why exactly that was, Morgan had no idea, nor did he care.

On the inside, the club was dominated by hardwood, soft carpets and deep, saturated colors. Blue, violet and red harmonized with the equally flashy and discrete LED lighting, lending the place a glamorous and comfortable atmosphere with just the right amount of straight-forward sleaziness strewn in. There wasn't much going on at this time of day, and Morgan did not have to wait long for his distraction to arrive.

She had a distinctly southern look about her. Shoulder-length blond hair, blue eyes, a sparkling smile and legs that seemed to go on forever. Her creamy skin and white string and garters absorbed the shade of the light that fell upon them, making the girl appear like the very manifestation of the building; an avatar embodying all the club was about. If that was true, thought Morgan, this was a very fine establishment indeed. The anger and arousal in his loins was stirring, and he was not trying to suppress it. There were bouncers around, among others. She would be safe. At least, that was what he told himself.

The girl had not yet reached him when a series of annoying clicks and chirps cut through the droning music of the club, accompanied by a series of bright flashes. Morgan glanced aside. His face darkened. Some asshead with a camera, almost drooling as he took picture after picture of Morgan's girl as she walked towards him. And yes; Morgan did already consider her to be his, even without having exchanged a single word with her. In his emotional state, having some slump-shouldered loser leer at what he had set his eyes on was enough to make him want to break every single bone in that worm's body. His girl ignored the photographer as if he wasn't even there. She strode up to Morgan with a sexy swing to her hips, her pasty-covered breasts standing out proudly before her. She smiled, leaned in close and cooed a 'Hey baby' that caused Morgan to forget the camera for the moment.

The peace of mind lasted for precisely three seconds. It was barely enough time for Morgan to return the blonde's smile. Then a burly sounding voice growled 'No fucking cameras!', and Morgan turned to see a bouncer wearing shades and a black beret wrestling the camera from its owner's grip and throwing him to the ground. The photographer cowered and yelped, dissolving into a puddle of patheticness before the bouncer. The beauty at Morgan's side chuckled, and Morgan found his own smile broadening as well. There was something elating about seeing the moron being put in his place, and while watching the bouncer get physical was not the same as doing it himself, Morgan still found the little show to be an adequate substitute.

Unfortunately, the photographer decided that this was the right moment to develop some sort of backbone. He struggled to his feet, readjusted his glasses, and began to threaten the bouncer with lawyers and lawsuits. Morgan did not like this change in script, not in the least. As the photographer moved forward, rambling about how he will ruin the bouncer, Morgan's first thundered forward and connected with the man's jaw. The solid, wet smack was audible throughout the club, and the photographer was sent tumbling back to the floor.

Morgan shuddered with delight. The sensation that the punch gave him was exquisite. He barely could keep himself from snapping wholesale and beginning to stomp the shit out of the man now lying at his feet. That would teach him, Morgan thought, self-righteous in his physical supremacy. He was in control, and that made less miserable.

He didn't feel a shred of sympathy or mercy for the shriveling wretch at his feet, which was quite unusual for him who usually prided himself for his empathy in his capacity as a bartender. All he cared about in that moment was himself, to somehow dull the throbbing ache in his chest that told him that he was still here, but insignificant and meaningless in his existence. It was without a doubt twisted, but in that moment lashing out against some geeky guy with a camera and inflicting pain became a life-affirming endeavor to him. It was spit in the face of creation that had instilled in him such a lack of self-worth that it was threatening to overpower even the most basic instinct for survival.

There might have been a chance for him to snap out of it after that scene, but the world had other intentions. The bouncer — instead of reprimanding him — gave him an appreciative nod and commented on his punch with a drawn out 'Nice', and one glance at the beauty at his side showed Morgan that she was still as close to him as ever. Her smile was firmly set in place and with a new spark to her eyes that told him that the violence she had just witnessed had excited her.

Morgan could certainly work with that.

The bouncer with his beret — his name turned out to be Bruno — didn't leave it at complementing Morgan on beating up the paparazzi, but went on to offering Morgan a job. Driving around wealthy clients and girls so they could have private parties in the back while keeping the press at bay did sound suspiciously like a combination of his previous jobs as bouncer and taxi driver, but the money Bruno promised him was better than what he ever made at both jobs combined. More than that, the simple fact that somebody thought that he could be good at something meant a whole lot to him in that moment. He didn't feel like pointing out that he was part of the Vice Kings, seeing how he was for once not wearing gang colors.

All the talk of private parties in the back of a car also made him wonder whether lap dances were really all that could be had at Tee'N'Ay. He glanced at the blond again, studying her face, considering the possibilities. His blood was more fired up than ever, and it was hard to remember why the idea had troubled him so much earlier. Telling Bruno that he would think about the offer, he put an arm around the girl's waist and started walking towards one of the private booths.

It all stayed rather tame. Morgan did indeed get a lap-dance from the southern beauty, earning him self a few slaps on the wrists when he no longer could contain his lust for her. Before he was even half-way through the dance, he was resolved that he would have her, that he needed to have her, no matter the prize.

But then, the girl did something that surprised Morgan. Still sitting on his lab, she bent over backwards and snatched up a pen that some waitress must have left on the nearby table. Plopping off the cap with her teeth, she took Morgan's hand, smiled shyly and began to write something into his palm.

"Maybe you want to get together sometimes when I'm off work," she said when she was finished. "I'm sure I can find you a few other guys that could do with a punch in the face."

She winked at him, then climbed off and strode away, leaving Morgan alone, baffled in his seat. What had just happened? He looked at his palm. Nine scribbled digits stared back at him, signed with the name 'Sam' under it. Morgan blinked, then stared after her, but she was already gone.

He was only coming out slowly of his lust-induced trance. It was with a shock that he realized how hell-bent he had been on fucking that woman. Yet by giving him her number without him even to ask to, she had somehow managed to cut clean through that. If she hadn't, Morgan had no idea what might have happened. Shame struck him a wicked blow in the gut. What a piece of shit he was. And yet, that girl had seen something in him, something that had caused her to think that being with him might have been worth her time. For that kindness, he was incredibly grateful, even though he knew that whatever she had seen had been a lie.

He looked at his hand again. Sam. Her name was Sam.

* * *

 **Part 2**

* * *

Morgan was still so absorbed with thoughts about his visit to Tee'N'Ay that he was utterly unprepared for what awaited him back at the towers. The street was a veritable beehive of activity. Three cars had lined up; a Capshaw and two glossy Zomkahs, all yellow of course. People were swarming around the vehicles, loading inconspicuous bags of doubtlessly lethal intent into the trunks, standing watch or running to and fro, relaying messages and organizing various aspects of whatever was going on. Whatever it was, it was big, that much was clear. If Morgan had to guess, he would have said that Rooch was about to move out in force.

Just as he stopped and jumped out of the car, he spotted Darnell talking to two other Vice Kings behind one of the Zomkahs. Without waiting for them to finish, he walked over to them. When Darnell noticed him, he stopped whatever he was doing and turned around.

"There ya' are!" he yelled. "Where the fuck ya've been? I've been lookin' all over for ya."

"Clearing my head," Morgan replied. He was still looking around in confusion. "What's going on?"

Darnell gave him a wolfish smile. "We're goin't'war. Looks like those Los Carnalez assholes weren't happy with us lockin' down the Row. Moved into the docks at Harrowgate, makin' a claim. We're goin' to jackhammer those spics into the fuckin' pavement. Got a tip that the Rollerz are about to show as well."

The fact that Darnell seemed utterly cheerful about it all almost worried Morgan as much as the facts did.

"You're sure that is a good idea? What if you get cornered? Or worse, what if the purple crew decides to crash the party as well. This could get nasty real quick if you ask me."

"Good thing nobody is askin' ya, then," a voice came from behind.

Morgan and Darnell turned around. Rooch had appeared from his tower and came walking towards them, the complimentary scowl Morgan had come to expect from him firmly set in place. Rooch shook his head and smacked his lips. "Always with the second guessin', always with dat faggot crew. Dont'cha know any other tune, boy? Tell ya what; all the better if dose bitches show! Finally be givin' me the chance to rip their fuckin' throats out!"

Rooch was all up in Morgan's face by now, turning the conversation into another direct confrontation. Morgan had little choice but to back away and avert his eyes. Anything else would have been pointless. Not only eager, but eager and angry, he thought. It was about the worst combination Morgan could think of. In his book, eager and angry pretty much equaled eager and stupid. He should know. He had shown that he was a prime example of that principle just the other day.

"All right, boss, got it," he mumbled, keeping his voice low. "When are we moving out?"

Rooch's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree, and his mouth distorted into a big 'O'. "Oh nooo," he said. "Not we. You're stayin' put. Darnell 'ere tells me poor little ya is still sad about losin' ya place. A'loose canon is bad enough, but I ain't gonna drag ya whiny ass around in a fight."

"I'm good now," Morgan protested. But Rooch would hear none of it. He didn't want to. His mind was already made up.

Morgan sighed. "What about my crew, then? About Tips and Keisha?"

"'dey're stayin' too," Rooch snorted. "I only need people with me who can actually get the job done."

 _You pompous, self-righteous ass_ , Morgan thought. It was utterly unfair, not only towards Tips and Keisha, but also Morgan and Zachariah by extension. Ultimately, their supposed 'messing up' had only resulted from them playing along with a plan that had been shitty from the very beginning. Rooch simply had not listened to reason, just as he was repeating now. Maybe it was actually a good thing that Morgan and the others would not be joining them. That way, at least if somebody got killed this time because of Rooch's stupidity, it would not be one of Morgan's people.

The squad took off soon after. Morgan watched the cars departing, his mouth tightened to a grim line, his posture tense, with hands clenched into fists. Feeling left behind and abandoned was never a nice feeling, but when the ones doing the abandoning had been supposed to be a new family and a way into a new life, being spurned in this fashion stung more than usually. Once again, the harsh reality of how messed up his life was crashed into him with the force of a battering ram. No job, no home, few enough friends and part of a gang that hated him — yes, he was utterly fucked.

He turned his hand around and stared at it. Lifting it to his face, he opened the palm. The numbers and letters were half-way gone already, erased by bodily chemistry and friction. The information was stored safely away in his phone, but the smeared blotches of paint held a far greater significance to him in that moment. It wasn't much, probably nothing more than one harmless flirt with a stripper that would amount to nothing. But in a world that seemed hell-bent on saying no to him, it symbolized the one instance in which life had said yes to him recently, and Morgan clung to it like to a lifeline. Otherwise, he surely would have gone mad.

Walking back into the barren apartment did little to raise his spirits, but everyone departed to get themselves killed, he didn't really now what else to do. For a time, he said around idly, but it was driving him crazy in its own way, and after twenty minutes of mind-numbing nothingness, he couldn't bear it any longer. He sent Tips and Keisha a message, figuring that maybe the two were just as bored as he was. He felt pretty lame for doing so, kind of like a sad older brother having no one his own age to play with, but seeing as that was not that far of from the truth, it was just something he had to deal with.

When neither of two got back to him straight away, Morgan decided to work out. This too was far from ideal. For once, he had just taken his first shower in days and was feeling remotely human again, and there was no telling how quickly he would be able to take another, so maybe getting all sweaty was not exactly the best of ideas. Also, it would all but exhaust his new trove of spare clothing. The other obstacle that he faced was the total absence of any sort of training equipment.

Still, his mind was set, and growing up in the projects, it would hardly have been the first time that Morgan needed to improvise during a workout. Some proper weights or cords would have been nice, but he made due without. He set himself up in the living room, moving the sparse furniture back to the walls to make room for himself. Starting with stretching exercises, he warmed himself up, loosening his muscles to preserve their flexibility for the future. He had seen often enough what could happen if all one was going for was strength and muscle size, and Morgan had often secretly made fun of those hulks that moved around with all the grace of a dented tin can.

After that, he went through a pretty basic workout of push-ups, squats, dips and crunches, circling through each exercise four times. Reflecting his mood, he actually ended up listening to Crunch Radio while he was at it, the music blaring at him in the meager quality his phone could provide. Caught between pelting drums, growls and screeching guitars on one side, and the pleasant, joyous repetition of his exercises challenging his body on the other, his head soon started to clear, and he lost track of time, absorbed by what he was doing.

He did not come out of it until there was a knock on the door. The impatience of the knocking suggested that it was not the first attempt. A little embarrassed that he had probably missed hearing the first couple of knocks, he rush to the door. When he opened, he saw Keisha standing on the other side of it. She gave him an odd look and wrinkled her nose as Morgan stood in the door, dressed in a basketball shirt and oversized shorts, sweating profusely. She shrugged after a moment and elbowed her way past him.

"What's up?" she asked as she inspected what Morgan had done to the apartment. "Gotchya text. The others are gone for real? All of them?"

Morgan puffed and spread his arms in a helpless gesture.

"All that I know of. Looks like the only ones left behind are Tips, you and myself."

Keisha commented with a simple "Bastards." It summed up Morgan's feelings in the matter quite nicely. She turned and looked at him once again. "You've been workin' out?"

"Had to find some way to pass the time around here, didn't I?"

Keisha's head bounced into a couple of nods. She didn't seem terribly interested in what Morgan had to say, which made him wonder why she had bothered to come at all.

"You're okay?"

"Sure, why wouldn't I be?"

Morgan was no expert, but the way she answered his question with one of her own made an incredible defensive impression on him. He chose not to push the matter. In fact, he was glad to have a familiar face to talk to, even if he had begun to really enjoy his workout session. Maybe Keisha really had been just as bored as he was, and simply was too stubborn to admit it, and if it was something else, then his experiences from their last encounter told him that is she wanted to talk about it with him, she would only do it on her own terms. Or not at all. He decided to switch topics.

"You heard from Tips?"

"Nope, you?"

"Not so far, no. I'm worried about the kid. I hope he's all right."

"Don't sweat it," said Keisha. Morgan wasn't sure whether it was supposed to be a joke at his expense or just a poor choice of words given the circumstances. "He'll bounce back, ya'll see. A week or so, and he will be back to the same annoying little clown."

Morgan wasn't so sure about it. Death had a tendency to change things, and rarely for the better.

"I hope you're right. What about Zach?"

There was a slight twitch in Keisha's lower lip. She wasn't making eye contact, and instead made a show of inspecting her fingernails in what doubtlessly was meant to be a casual gesture.

"Cops are still holding on to his body as far as I've heard. Investigation is still going on bla bla bull shit... you know the drill."

Morgan nodded. "I'm actually surprised they haven't picked us up for questioning yet."

"It's the Row," Keisha answered, matter-of-factly. "They know how fuckin' useless the cops are just as well as we do."

Morgan considered that statement for a moment. Then he nodded again. "There's some good people living there."

"Yeah right." Keisha tsked. "Says the guy whose house was just burned down."

"I hadn't forgotten. Thanks for reminding me."

Keisha did have the good grace to look a little remorseful after that. She even mumbled what sounded kind of like an apology. There was a pause, and the silence between them grew. Morgan felt awkward and clumsy. He didn't know Keisha very well yet, and beside both of them having recently joined the Vice Kings, they didn't have a whole lot in common as far as he was able to tell. Paired with their difference in age, Morgan had no idea what to talk to her about beside the obvious smalltalk they had already exhausted. Something needed to happen.

"You know where Tips lives at?" Morgan asked. "Maybe we should pay him a visit and see how he is doing."

It was the first thing that came to Morgan's mind, and Keisha was less than thrilled by the prospect. She didn't even try to hide the sour expression that crept onto her face. She crossed her hands behind her back and sighed.

"Don't know where exactly. Never been to his place, but I know which block, if that helps. I don't see the point though. Like I said, the toon will be fine. Stop fussin' around. Besides, I'm not really lookin' to be his baby sitter."

"How about his friend?" Morgan shot back. He was getting slightly irritated. Keisha's whole lonesome-rider-slash-not-giving-a-shit-attitude was starting to be a real chore. After all, she didn't had to come. If she truly wanted to be alone, she could have just stayed away, or not join a fucking street gang in the first place. But Keisha obviously did not want not to care for anybody. What she wanted was merely for people to think that she didn't. It was a pretentious tough act of the worst kind. It made Morgan glad not be a fucking teenager for a change.

Keisha invoked one of the supernatural abilities that younger people always seem to possess. The annoying pout. She slumped her shoulders in defeat and surrendered rather than showing honest regret, then went on to drain all happiness and passion out of her environment with a frown of such utter disinterest that it became hard to stay positive about pretty much anything. Morgan sighed. Life just kept finding ways to shit all over him.

"Let's get this over with," he growled and stepped into the bedroom to change.

* * *

 **Part 3**

* * *

According to Keisha, Tip's folks had a place in eastern Shivington, right on the edge to Prawn Court and close to the old police station that was closed down years ago. The property there wasn't necessarily anything special, though prices tended to be a little bit higher closer to the more prosperous districts. The red-light district was no exception. The houses were just as rundown as in the rest of Shivington, but at least they were actual houses, and not the massive towers of poverty that Morgan was most familiar with.

As it so happened, Keisha and Morgan never actually reached their destination. They were maybe halfway there when Morgan's phone started to ring. Keeping his eyes on the road, Morgan fished it out of his pocket. His time as a taxi driver had provided him with some proficiency when it came to that particular trick. He stared at the display, expecting it to be his parents, the cops, or some other party he didn't want to talk to. When he saw that it was Darnell, he hesitated for a moment, wondering whether Darnell currently resided on that list. But given the fact that he had come through on the clothes, Morgan decided to answer the call.

He immediately shirked away from the deafening sound of gunfire that exploded through the speakers. On the other end of the line, Darnell was panting. "Barnes? Fuck! Barnes, yu there?"

More gunfire drowned out the rest. Morgan felt his entire body tighten up. His hand clawed into the steering wheel, wrestling a groaning creak from the old leather.

"I'm here," he cried into the phone. "Darnell? Darnell! What's happening?"

"Motherfuckers!" Darnell returned fire, squeezing off a few shots, then shuffled over what sounded concrete and shards of glass, constantly cursing and then banging into something made out of metal. "We're pinned down at the docks," he continued. "Those purple pricks — I don't think any of the other groups made it. Fuckin' assholes!"

More shooting followed. Morgan gulped nervously. His mind was racing, trying to piece together what had happened while simultaneously trying to come up with a plan to help out. He didn't have much to go on, but it sounded like what happened turned out to be precisely what he had feared. The new crew from the Row was definitely involved, and it sounded bad. Without thinking, Morgan pulled hard on the wheel, turning the Compton around with screeching tires in the middle of the street. Keisha yelped in surprise, then cursed when she banged her head as the car came around. Morgan ignored her. He stepped on the gas, and the Compton sped off, heading east.

The gunshots and sirens could already be heard from afar. Keisha and Morgan had made good time, taking the underpass into Copperton and cutting through the truck yard and under the interchange at a speed that would have gotten them in trouble on the high way, much less on the regular road beneath it. Luckily for them, what cops still were in the area were likely too occupied with bullets and dead bodies to care much about speeding tickets and reckless endangerment. Hearing the continuous gunfire was both unsettling and reassuring. It meant that they were driving right into the center of an active battleground, but it also meant that there was at least still a chance that they would arrive in time to help out some of their people.

The sound of urban warfare led them on until they reached a larger compound situated at the Harrowgate docks. Partly fenced and partly walled off to all sides except the waterside, it covered quite a large area, containing enough space for a packing station, two large warehouses and another brown brick house whose purpose Morgan was only able to guess at. Piles of crates, pallets and containers were everywhere, clogging the yard, and mingling with the fleet of disconnected trailers. Strangely, there was not a single truck that could have pulled them within sight. Keisha and Morgan spotted other cars, belonging both to the police and the various gangs. Some were little more than burned out husks, small flames still licking lazily about their frames and coughing smoke into the air. Other cars had been smashed into one another with sickening force, shattering windows and bending the vehicles into distorted shapes. Those that had escaped these crueler fates just stood around, shot up and abandoned. There wasn't a single person in sight. Not a live one, anyway.

Keisha and Morgan drove on at a walking pace, maneuvering carefully around the crates, containers and car wrecks, around the warehouse and on to the western end of the compound. The sound of flying became louder and louder.

"Hand me my bag," Morgan said, nodding towards the backseat. He had refused to leave anything he owed back at the apartment. First of all, it wasn't home, and it never would be. What few things Morgan had left he also considered too valuable to be left unguarded, even if it really was little more than a handful of clothes and weapons. The way things were going for him, he was half expecting for the decision to come back and bite him in the ass. Probably the car would explode over the next hour, or maybe the cops would pick him up and bust him for the bag's contents.

Once the Krukov lay assembled and loaded in his lab, they drove on. Neither of them were talking at this point. Beside him, Keisha shifted around nervously on the passenger seat, wetting her lips with her tongue and wrapping her hands in a varitable chokehold around her gun. Morgan himself felt equally anxious. His muscles were all tense, and a faint throbbing in the back of his head counted off the seconds until a proper migraine would kick in. He could have asked Keisha whether she was ready and up for it, but he kept his mouth shut. They were committed way past the point of no return. Nothing that Keisha could have said at this point would have changed that. Not asking also had another advantage: It kept Keisha from asking him the same thing.

Slowly, they rolled towards the final corner, careful not to announce their arrival by loud howling of the old engine. Morgan's stomach turned upside down. He gulped, his foot itching to step on the breaks as the edge of the warehouse kept crawling towards them. Another shot cut through the air, sending a shiver down Morgan's back. It took all his willpower to keep the wheel steady, his foot off the breaks, and allow the car to carry them around the corner.

If the docks had looked liked a battlefield, the western part of it had definitely seen the worst of the war. Black plumes of smoke rose from a freshly exploded yellow car. There were bullet casings everywhere, glinting in the sunlight or slowly drowning in the pools of dark blood that seeped out of the corpses that littered the ground. Crates and containers were riddled with bullet holes, some so much that they had been all but ripped apart.

By the looks of it, the Rollerz and Carnalez were already finished. The corpses in blue were spread out all over the place, gunned down alone or in pairs, their losses slowly having mounted over the course of the fight until there was simply no one left. The red Carnalez, by contrast, lay closer together. Five of them were almost on top of each other, piled up behind a series of crates that they had used for cover when a new threat had appeared and gunned them down from behind. From his position, Morgan could see a single cop, bleeding profusely from a head wound. She was hauled up behind the sorry remains of her car, and pretty much chanting like a madman into her radio. Sirens were growing louder by the minute, signaling that more cops and probably SWAT teams were on their way. The SWPD's first responders had paid quite the price for fulfilling their duty today.

The Vice Kings were too caught up in trying to stay alive in order to care much about the police. Morgan only saw brief flashes of yellow, darting in and out of cover behind a heavy trash container, but judging by the size of it, it couldn't be hiding more than one or two of the gangers, maybe three. It was not even half of the squad that had set out from Shivington. Morgan saw one a few others sprawled out motionlessly on the tarmac. Morgan lacked the presence of mind to count them. Instead, his eyes focused on those figures who continued to fire at the survivors behind the trash bin.

There were almost a dozen of them. Some of them had taken up position on the roof of the warehouse, covering for their allies on the ground and forcing the Vice Kings to keep low to the ground to say out of sight. The rest was slowly moving forward, dressed in black and white, but most of all the dreaded purple that Morgan had expected. Despite their numerical advantage, they were taking no chances, keeping their targets pinned down with suppressive fire and moving diligently from cover to cover.

Morgan gasped when he recognized one of them as the one who had tried shooting Darnell from behind on the Row. He also spotted the white-haired asian guy that had killed Zach. He was leading the advance, a heavy shotgun resting in his hands. Even at the distance that Morgan was at, he could see the smug smile on his face, and a cold and all-encompassing fury took hold of him. Lowering the Compton's window, he wedged the Krukov in place. His eyes never left Zach's killer.

"Get ready."

He didn't wait for a reply and immediately pushed the gas through to the bottom. The Compton answered him with spinning wheels and a loud howling of the engine. For a second, it seemed like it would stay in place, held by some unseen force, but then it sped forward. Morgan worked the steering wheel like a madman, guiding the car past crates and pellets with one hand even as he accelerated further.

All over the place, people whirled around to meet the new threat. Weapons glinted in the sunlight, but before anyone could bring their guns to bear, Keisha opened fire. She had curbed down her window just like Morgan. Bracing herself on the roof, she had halfway crawled out of the car as she emptied her first clip into the purple gangsters. Additional guns joined in when the VKs behind the trash container utilized the brief distraction to chime in.

Morgan focused on driving. He thought he saw at least one guy in purple fall out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn't be sure. It didn't keep their opponents occupied for long. Once they had adapted to the new situation, they divided their attention between the old targets and the new. Seriously outgunned, the Vks behind the trash bin had no choice but to retreat back behind cover. Keisha and Morgan, unfortunately, did not have the luxury of a similar option. The bullets were buzzing around their heads, biting into the Compton's hull, punching holes and striking sparks.

Keisha retreated back inside, cursing and shrieking as she sought to her make herself as small as possible. Morgan did about the same, crouching down in his seat as far as possible without losing sight of where he was going. The side window of the backseat exploded first. Morgan's side mirror followed immediately afterwards. One bullet passed dangerously close to Morgan's head, in through Morgan's window and out on the passenger side without causing any damage. Morgan blinked in naked fear and drove on, angling the car towards the trash container.

Bullets kept peppering the Compton like an angry hailstorm. One smashed into the windshield, followed by two more in short succession. The entire glass erupted into opaque, milky cobwebs. Keisha cried, and Morgan swore as loud as his voice allowed him, trying to stay sane in the madness of it all.

Glimpsing through a tiny spot of clear glass, he could barely make out the trash container they were surging towards, much less anything else that was going on. Judging the distance on nothing but instinct, he hit the breaks as hard as he could. The very same moment, he turned aside, and finally returned fire.

The Krukov's knockback almost knocked the weapon straight from his grip as the rifle howled and started filling the air with bullets. Morgan clung on with a strength born out of desperation, and the Krukov kept rattling, sending bullet after bullet at the attackers, many of which had emptied the clips of their own weapons by now. Several of them ran for cover. Others remained standing, but one lucky shot punched straight through the head of one of the purple-clad bangers. The body was catapulted of its feet and hit the tarmac. That got people's attention, and more of the men dove to safety.

Shots erupted behind Morgan, but he was too caught up keeping one side busy to be able to care. He could only hope that Keisha and the other survivors were pulling their weight. He held the Krukov at ground level for a second longer, then spayed the rest of his clip at the gunners on the roof of the warehouse, hoping to force them back as well. The dreadful clicking of the empty chamber sounded just as the backdoor on Keisha's sight was yanked open, and two bodies dove onto the backseat.

"For Christ's sake, drive!" shouted a furiously afraid voice. It was Darnell.

Morgan did not have to be told twice. The rifle tumbled awkwardly against him as he let go, gripped the steering wheel and stepped onto the gas. He still could see shit through the torn windshield, but a hurried glance out of Keisha's window told him just enough to plot a course off the compound. It was more feeling than seeing the way though, and with long bursts of bullets flying around their heads once more, even that feeling was seriously impeded.

The rear window became riddled with bullets and shattered into nothingness. Morgan smashed though a crate, and the impact rocked through the entire vehicle. On impulse, Morgan tried steering away from further obstacles. Metal screeched as the Comtpon came into contact with a container on the other side, sparks flying everywhere as the two objects ground away at each other. At this point, everyone within the car was screaming at the top of their lungs.

Ironically, it was yet another bullet that probably ended up saving their lives. It tore through the windshield, finally ripping out a large enough chunk for Morgan to be able to see once more. It was just in time to see another container coming towards them. Morgan's eyes widened in terror and he yanked on the wheel. The car swerved and slid clear of the obstacle by a hairsbreadth. Behind them, the gangers kept firing at them, but Morgan pulled back into the shadow of the container as soon as they passed it. The Compton was making unhealthy noises by now, which — judging by the dents and holes in the hood — didn't really come as a big surprise. It lurched on heroically for the time being, but Morgan was very skeptical when it came to how long the car would be able to last.

Fewer bullets were reaching them by now, and the shouts of their enemies grew distant, until suddenly they were in the clear. Passing through the dock's western gate, they were back on the streets of Harrowgate. Morgan steered the Compton off the main road as soon as the opportunity presented itself, and their shot up vehicle disappeared down one of the countless smaller streets, just as the police came pouring around the corner in force, rushing towards the docks with howling sirens.

* * *

 **Part 4**

* * *

As soon as they dared to hope that nobody was following, cheers broke out in the car. The tension and suspense that had accumulated was just too great, and it discharged itself in a wild tangle of gasping sighs and other sounds of joyous elation. Keisha shouted her relief into the air without restraint, then settled into a fit of girly giggling. On the backseat, Darnell and the other Vice King — Morgan did not remember his name — shouted at each other with guttural voices, urging each other to new heights and punching each other repeatedly in the shoulder.

Morgan glanced at them, and the corners of his mouth twitched upwards. He gasped in relief and only in that moment realized that he had been holding his breath. How the other two could have any adrenaline left to spend after the ordeal they had just been through was simply beyond him. If anything, he was bone-weary.

Curiously, Darnell and his pal showed little signs of exhaustion. They just kept on raging on the backseat, shouting and jumping, their arms flailing.

"That's what I'm talkin' about!" cried Darnell, punching the back of Morgan's seat. "That's just it. Morgan motherfuckin' Barnes, ya beautiful son of a bitch, you're a fuckin' saint! Jesus Christ, that was beautiful."

"We're not in the clear yet," Morgan cautioned, but Darnell only laughed more.

"We were fuckin' fucked! Done for, just like the others. Andtcha got us out. Not gonna forget this anytime soon, dawg."

They ended up dumping the shot up Compton in a nearby alleyway. Most cops were hopefully still tied up at the docks, but driving around in a car that damaged was bound to draw attention. All were in agreement that this was something better avoided for the time being. Since Morgan was the only one not representing — still wearing some of the spare clothes that Darnell had sent him — he was handled a couple of hundreds and told to make a run to on the rag to grab a couple of shirts and jackets so the rest of them were able to blend in. After that, Morgan made a call to one of his old colleagues at the taxi service and organized them a ride back to the projects. While they waited for the taxi to arrive, Morgan asked Darnell to tell him what had actually happened. The relief of having gotten out of the tight spot at the docks had subsided at that point, and Darnell's face had become grim and stricken with a mixture of rage and shame as he began to explain what had gone wrong.

"Started out well enough. We got there and the Rollerz and Los Carnalez had just started poundin' on each other. So we jumped in. Not an ambush or nothin', we just got in there, ya know? Good honest shootin'. Would have had them, too. Rooch was unreal, went totally off the rail. Probably wasted half a dozen guys with that handgun of his. The Carnalez were boxed in between us and the Rollerz. Served those arrogant pricks right for pullin' off a stunt like that.

That was pretty much when all went to shit. The purple pantsies appeared out of nowhere and steamrolled over the Rollerz, mobbed up what was left of the spicks and then tried to do the same with us. I have no fuckin' clue how many assholes are rollin' with them, but them fuckers showed up in force."

Darnell shrugged, and for the first time a sense of weariness and exhaustion settled upon him. His voice grew softer, quieter, becoming little more than a hoarse whisper.

"Then our guys started droppin' ..."

Uncomfortable silence followed, and people stared awkwardly at the ground. It was Morgan who eventually mustered the courage to ask a question.

"And you're sure nobody else could have made it out? Maybe you just got separated and —"

Darnell cut him off. "Nobody got separated," he spat. "They were shot like fish in a fuckin' barrel. All of them, the whole lot. Even Rooch."

Morgan blinked. Hearing Rooch's name uttered out loud had a peculiar effect on him. It was like a rough shove forcing him to take a step back, and once he stopped his emotional stumbling and regained his balance, he wondered why he had been affected at all. So what if Rooch and most of his crew were dead? They were Vice Kings, sure, and that made them kind of his team, but the sad truth was that this bound had been weak and flimsy, nothing more than an idea without any heart or conviction behind it. Once it was put under the strain of critical scrutiny, it unraveled into nothingness.

It wasn't like it had been with Zack, someone he had instructed and taken responsibility for. Most of the people they had lost today were just faces and shirt colors to him, maybe a name or two. The one he did actually know was a person that had hated his guts. Him being dead didn't change the fact that the feeling was mutual. No matter what color he might have worn, he wouldn't miss the likes of Rooch for so much as a second.

But Darnell did. That much was clear. It was the only thing that kept Morgan from making a cutting remark about how he had warned Rooch of this very thing happening. The very stupidity with which he had gotten Zack killed and Morgan's house burned to the ground had now claimed his own life, and Morgan couldn't deny that he drew some sort of satisfaction from that. A small part of him was appalled by this blatant disregard for life — even if it was for a person like Rooch — but the faint nagging conscience was easily drowned out by the dark, gloating schadenfreude that he experienced.

"What now, then?"

Darnell considered the question for a moment. He chewed absently on his lips and rubbed with his thumb over the tip his pointer, raising the hand almost up to his chin.

"First, we get out of here," he said, stating the obvious. "Then we gonna have to pass it up the chain. Damn it, when Mr. King hears of this, he's gonna be pissed. Maybe you should have let us get shot."

The statement seemed a little overly dramatic for Morgan's taste. He could not claim to know much about the legend that was Benjamin King, but he couldn't imagine that the loss of a few soldiers would cause a man of such power more than a fleeting irritation.

"Why would he care?" he asked, trying not to sound too condescending. "Aren't we — well, you know — a bit small to be on his radar?"

"Oh, I bet we are," Darnell agreed instantly. "Takin' the Row isn't though. Why do ya think Rooch was pushin' us so hard to move in? He was gettin' a lot of pressure from further up the chain. Wasn't King himself, but I'm sure that if ya go high enough, this all leads up to the big man in the end. There is not a thing goin' on in the city that the boss doesn't know about, I'm tellin' ya."

Morgan was forced to admit that it did made kind of sense. Rooch had been a sadistic asshole in his eyes, that much didn't change, but maybe he had not been as stupid and greedy as Morgan had thought him to be. Or maybe he had been, but for different reasons. Being pressured from someone higher up the food chain could cause people to do all kinds of crazy shit. Maybe Rooch simply hadn't been able to cope with the demands he had been facing. The thought made Morgan almost feel remotely sorry about Rooch's death. Almost.

"So, with Rooch gone, who do we report to?"

Darnell gave him a dubious look. "Not sure," he admitted. "But whoever it is, I'll bet he's gonna sent for us soon."

Somehow, Morgan did not like the sound of that.


	6. Chapter 6 - The Audience

**D** arnell's 'soon' turned out to be two days later. With Rooch's crew crippled and leaderless, the daily business around their turf all but collapsed in a single swoop. With the help of Keisha, Tips and Morgan, Darnell tried to step in and pick up the pieces where they fell. They were surprisingly successful. Rooch's operation had been a rather small one, seeing how his main objective had been to expand the King's territory permanently into the Saints Row area. Consequently, there wasn't actually that much to deal with locally.

Ironically, the biggest problem turned out to be other VK crews moving in on their territory under the false pretense of expressing their condolences and offering help. Morgan was outright appalled by this ruthless opportunism. Even for gangbangers, he thought that was an all-time low.

When the call from higher up came two days later, they were in for a surprise. Naturally, they had expected that as next in line, it would be Darnell who would make the trip up north. But for some reason, Morgan's presence was specifically requested as well. Morgan wasn't sure whether to be flattered or worried by that. It was probably a bit of both. He hadn't expected for Benjamin King to know that he so much as existed, much less being able to ask for him by name. Then again, considering his recent run-in with Big Tony, figuring out where King might have gotten his intel wasn't all that hard.

Morgan could tell that Darnell found it odd as well to have him tag along. The general lack of conversation, the occasional frown and overall irritated driving style taken together merged into a tell-tale sign that was too striking for Morgan not to pick up upon. This time around, at least the radio was on, bombarding them with the rhythmic, sultry beats of some sexually charged house music.

They crossed the water by the middle one of the three highway bridges connecting the two parts of the city. As he watched the skyline of the northern districts rise before him into ever clearer shape, Morgan felt a sense of alienation take hold of him. It might have theoretically still been Stilwater that he was driving towards, but it didn't feel that way. As far as Morgan was concerned, it was an altogether different world that – up to this point – he had mostly watched from afar. A nervous clench in his stomach informed him that part of him wished it to remain so. Sadly, he didn't have a choice.

When you grew up in the projects, downtown Stilwater was admittedly something else. For Morgan, it wasn't so much the cleanness or the sheer height of the buildings. They did dwarf even the biggest towers in the projects by a good deal, but what felt most alien to Morgan were the shapes and materials that were used. Big buildings were something that he was used to, and even if these buildings were much bigger, it just felt like more of the same. Intricate designs, though, buildings that were more than just a ton of bricks and concrete hastily errected by the city to cram a lot of people into made Morgan feel totally out of place.

Domes, ornamented eaves, custom statues and grotesques; they all were part of a foreign architecture. Glass and steel had the same effect on him, at least when they suddenly replaced stone or concrete in their entirety and created looming towers that sparkled and glittered when the sun hit them at just the right angle. It was as if some kind of magic had been involved in their creation.

There were also the people. People in expensive clothes, with flashy hats or sunglasses, their hands busy with holding phones, coffee, shopping bags or the leashes of their just as well groomed dogs. No matter what they did, there was a sense of purpose about them. Most of them looked busy and in a hurry, eager and yet already too late for their next all-important appointment. Yet even those people taking a casual, relaxed stroll or sitting on benches or at the fountains did so with a remarkable sense of deliberation in Morgan's eyes. Those people didn't just hang. With lives full of activities, responsibilities and choices to make, maybe they were outright rendered incapable of grasping the very concept of what hanging was.

None of the people displayed the slow aimless shuffle Morgan often saw around the projects, the kind not rooted in carefree relaxation, but a crushing lack of perspective that went beyond boredom and firmly entered the realm of desolation. It was a notion that couldn't be described or taught, something that you had to experience for yourself, that stayed with you and defined you until the day you died. None of those people had stared into that particular abyss. It set them apart, from Morgan and Darnell and all the others growing up on the brink. Morgan wondered what notion he in turn might lack that they had.

King's personal domain was located in Adept Way. They drove onto a spacious immaculately maintained parking lot. On the right-hand side, a downward ramp let to an underground garage, right next to the tower that rose into the sky. It was slim and slender as far as high-rises went, magnificent and at the same time bordering on the verge of alienation that Morgan had pondered upon on his way here. The parking lot was mostly empty, but what few other cars stood out in the sun were high end, easily worth five to ten times the price the Capshaw that they were arriving in, maybe more.

So this was it, Morgan thought, looking to the top of the building with a mixture of awe and anxiety. This was the house of somebody who had made it, somebody from the projects that had risen to the very top of what Morgan aspired to.

They entered into a spacious lobby. White walls and wooden panels reminded Morgan somewhat of the King's Court, just brighter and even more luxurious. The lobby alone had the size of a small gym. Two stairs led up to the first floor, framed by actual trees that had been planted in large pots in the lobby, tentatively reaching upwards without any hope of reaching the high ceiling any time soon.

At the center of the lobby was a security console with a well-dressed doorman sitting behind it. He didn't look like a gangbanger, nor like a person who ever had been, which Morgan found surprising. Still, he seemed to be fully aware of whom he was guarding, for he took one look at their clothes — Morgan was wearing his yellow shirt again — and flashed them a knowing smile.

"Good day, gentlemen. Mr. King is expecting you?"

Morgan expected Darnell to handle this kind of situation. He was the one in charge, after all. But instead of answering, Darnell looked at him with a face saying that he was just as much out of his depth as Morgan was.

"Ah, yeah," he managed eventually. "He's... I mean we were told to come in."

The doorman's smile never wavered. With an energetic, almost joyful notion, he picked up the phone. "Splendid. Now, if you would be so kind to give me your names, I can check upstairs and you can be on your way."

Just as Morgan had thought. Totally different world.

"It's Pittman," said Darnell. Only when the doorman kept looking expectantly at Morgan did Darnell glance at his companion. "Oh, and Barnes," he added. "Pittman and Barnes."

If the doorman was in any way offended or amused by their behavior, he gave no sign of it. With routine professionalism, he phoned ahead and announced their arrival, then directed them towards the nearest elevator and wished them a good day. Morgan and Darnell were only too happy to get out of there.

"Man, that was creepy!" Darnell said the second that the elevator doors had closed.

Morgan crossed his arms and chuckled. "Yeah, ever walked into a building with an actual doorman before?"

"Hell, no! Wait, do police stations count?"

Morgan shook his head. "Of course not."

"Then hell no!"

They both shared a laugh after that, and it was as if a weight was taken off Morgan's shoulders. Darnell and him were talking again. Regardless of the reasons for their quarrel or who had been in the right, Morgan was glad to see it resolved. Seeing how they were about to be received by Benjamin King, there was ample tension to go around even without Darnell and him being at each other's throats.

Two estranged boys from the hood, brought together by the anxiety of finding themselves in a part of society that was previously beyond them. Sounded like a bad movie script, and yet it was true. By each other's presence, they were affirming who they were and where they came from, discounting everything and everyone that did not share or fit that background as different and weird. It certainly beat scurrying around like scared mice, showing how cowed and intimidated they were by the unfamiliar environment for all the world to see.

When the doors of the elevator opened again, they were at the very top of the building; a luxurious penthouse that served both as Benjamin King's home and private office. The first sight that greeted them as they stepped out was a security desk almost identical to the one downstairs. The only difference was that no doorman set behind this one. Instead, Morgan and Darnell walked towards a pretty woman dressed the way most men envisioned attractive secretaries to dress like. She had short hair accentuating her slender face and a pair of glasses that made her look more intelligent while also letting her eyes appear bigger and more sensual. Just as the doorman before her, she flashed the two of them a warm, friendly smile. The effect it had on Morgan couldn't have been more different though.

"Hi," she beamed, "You must be Mr. Barnes and Mr. Pittman. It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Tiffany. Mr. King is just wrapping up another appointment and will be with you shortly. He asked me to tell you to make yourself at home in the meantime. Would you care for anything while you wait? Tea, coffee, or something stronger perhaps?"

Darnell gave the secretary a look as if she had just spoken to him in some dead foreign language. It would have been quite hilarious, if Morgan hadn't felt the same way. Luckily for him, Tiffany was a pretty woman, and unlike many others, that actually made things easier for him. So he returned her dazzling smile with one of his own, and moved past Darnell to lean forward onto the counter.

"Thank you, Tiffany, but we're good. Do a lot of guys do that while they wait? Take something stronger, I mean."

Tiffany blinked once at him. "You have no idea. With people from your line of work, you learn to expect pretty much anything. It's exciting, though. Keeps the job interesting."

"My line of work, eh?" Morgan chuckled. "Well, that's certainly one way of putting it. Not the kind of people you would usually expect in a place like this, am I right?"

"Maybe not, but then again you usually wouldn't find somebody like me working in a place like this, either. This place is special in that way, and we are all grateful to Mr. King for it. He never forgets where he comes from, and even though his upbringing wasn't exactly privileged, he is determined to give to the community that raised him, and share his good fortune."

Morgan's smile froze in place. It was all well and good for a person to like his or her boss, but for a pretty receptionist to be this forthcoming about her personal feelings in the matter seemed a little too staged for Morgan not to get suspicious. Morgan was good with women, but he wasn't that good. He wasn't about to hold it against Tiffany, though. Her affection appeared genuine and honest, and even if it wasn't, she was just doing her job. It did make him wonder about the man at the top he was about to meet, about whether his staff was just an elaborate part of how he was presenting himself to the world and what that would tell him about Benjamin King that he previously had not been aware of.

"Sounds like you owe him," he said with a wink. "Though I don't think that Mr. King got the worse of that deal by employing someone like you."

The words were dripping with charm and compliment, and did not fail in their intended purpose. Tiffany flushed a little, and beamed at Morgan, fluttering with her eye-lashes a bit.

"You're sweet." She paused, thought, and was about to say something else when one of the lamps on the table flared to life. Instantly, her demeanor changed, and she put some distance between herself and Morgan, sitting up straight in her chair where she had previously been leaning upon her desk. Her hands moved about her console in a flurry, first pushing a couple of buttons and then picking up the phone.

"Yes, Mr. King," she said. Her voice was still pleasant and charming, but now there was a certain professional rigidness about it, not exactly fear but most definitely respect. This definitely told Morgan something about the man he was about to meet.

"Yes, of course. Right away, Mr. King. I'll send them in."

The phone went back into its station, and Tiffany steepled her fingers. Her eyes met Morgan's again. "Mr. King is now ready for you," she said, rising gracefully. "Follow me, please."

Tiffany took the lead and led them to the left, deeper into the penthouse, past potted flowers, golden records and expensive-looking paintings. Her high-heels tik-toked over the bright marble tiles that were polished to such a degree that Morgan could watch her reflection as they walked. Through a large, hall-like lobby bigger than the insides of several churches that Morgan knew, past a circular stairwell that led to what looked like the private portion of the penthouse, Tiffany led them into an office area, complete with a copy room, work stations and constant, rhythmic drumming of fingers typing away on keyboards.

Immediately, Morgan noticed the absence of certain characteristics in the people toiling away at their computers. Like Tiffany, all the women were slim and attractive, wearing clothes riding on the edge between professionalism and temperate slutiness. The men, likewise, were either slim or prominently fit and muscular, dressed in suit pants, colorful shirts and shiny shoes. Nobody was fat, looked sickly or messy or even just depressed. It looked like there wasn't room for anything other than pictures of health and success in Benjamin King's main enterprise.

At the end of the office section, a sturdy, freshly polished door led into King's office. There was no tag announcing either the name or office of the person waiting behind it. Instead, a stylized golden crown rested boldly in the upper part of the wood, settling both accounts more clearly than any tag ever could have. Tiffany knocked gently, and threw a last, almost excusing smile at Morgan, before she opened the door, and gestured them to enter.

The most striking feature about the office was definitely its window front, allowing for a spectacular view of the city's center to the west. The room was big, dominated by a massive office desk that was set up with the back towards the windows, and yet by virtue of the sunlight flooding the room through the wall of glass, it still retained a light, almost idyllic atmosphere. On the other side of the room, a large cupboard was set into the wall, containing an assortment of rare liquors, more golden records and several document folders. LED lights, glowing around the edges of a large wooden panel provided additional illumination. Only the southern wall was left bare, hidden behind a screen installed to go together with the projector that was screwed into the ceiling.

Benjamin King was sitting behind his desk, the very picture of a successful business man. He was tall and powerfully built, radiating physical strength, a fact that was only stressed further by the custom-tailored suit hugging his broad frame like a second skin. His face was round and broad, with a strong jaw and prominent lips, the eyes a very deep brown, his hair and beard close-cropped. He looked as if he had been born into that suit, and yet, at the same time, Morgan couldn't help but feel that if challenged, this man would be able to revert back to the demeanor of a bone-crushing criminal without so much as a blink. This definitely was not a man to be trifled with.

"Have a seat."

King's voice was deep and gritty, its natural authority as well as the casual gesture with which he was offering them seats evidence for how much the man was used to being obeyed. Morgan had to admit, he was impressed big time. After seeing the penthouse and the people working there, he hadn't exactly known what to expect. Maybe some urban animal living out the fantasy of no longer being one. Someone like Rooch, mistaking violence for strength and cruelty for cunning. Or maybe some pimp, full of sleazy smiles and flaunting his wealth in the face of all those less fortunate than himself. Looking at Benjamin King, however, Morgan was certain that he was none of these things.

They sat down like the timid mouses they had previously refused to become. The leather chairs groaned and cracked as they lowered themselves into them. Morgan was painfully aware of the sound, as if even the smallest inconvenience or irritation for their host might prove to be too much.

If Benjamin King registered either the sound of the chair or his guests' nervousness, he gave no sign of it. He leaned forward, folded his big, shovel-like hands upon the desk and calmly took their measure. A smile appeared on his face.

"Which one of you boys is Darnell?"

Morgan and Darnell looked at each other, then Darnell raised his hand. He looked like a school boy in the principal's office. King merely nodded.

"That would make you Morgan," he said, turning towards his second guest. "Anthony told me about meeting you. It's been a while since I have seen him battered like that."

Morgan took a deep breath and sighed. He had known that little stunt would come back to bite him in the ass. He had just hoped it wouldn't be so soon.

"Mr. King," he stammered. "I am very sorry about that. I meant no disrespect."

King chuckled. "You misunderstand me, son. I'm not blaming you. Anthony can take care of himself, and he's no use to me if he allowed himself to get soft. If anything, you've done me a favor."

Before Morgan could reply, King dropped the topic and moved on to the next, which was probably good since Morgan would not have known how to respond anyhow.

"But I have not brought you here to talk about some nigga's face. We need to talk about that business at the docks. You — "

"Wasn't our fault!"

Everything froze. Morgan turned towards Darnell in what felt like slow-motion, seeing his friend's eyes widening in shock as he realized he had just spoken those words aloud. Benjamin King's face darkened at being interrupted, and he looked at Darnell with a deep, penetrating stare. Darnell's will buckled under its attention. Without a doubt, he wished he could take those words back, but the damage was already done, and with their host making no moves to pick up where he had left off, Darnell was left with no choice but to go on.

"Sorry, but it's true, I'm tellin' ya. If that other crew hadn't showed, we would've totally — "

"Too bad for you that it did, then," interjected King. It was a verbal slap in Darnell's face, and yet King's voice remained deep but even, displaying not even a hint of rage or anger. "You see, boy, that is actually part of the problem. 'That crew' as you so ignorantly put it, are the Third Street Saints, something that you and your friends would have known if you had bothered to find out who you're up against before picking a fight. What the hell made you think that was a good idea?"

Darnell lowered his head. "Wasn't my call, Mr. King."

"Ah, yes. Rooch, now was it?" King opened one of the drawers of his desk and reached inside. Both Morgan and Darnell jerked back in their chairs when the leader of the Vice Kings produced a gold-plated handgun. It was only at second glance that they realized that it was in fact the one that had belonged to Rooch.

King turned the weapon over in his hand, examining it from different angles. "Well, at least that problem had taken care of itself, ain't it?" He turned towards Morgan again. "We talked to the rest of your crew. They said you've had quite the beef with this piece's previous owner."

Morgan nodded stiffly. He tried really hard not to glance at Darnell beside him, who had blanched in the face of King's harsh comment about Rooch's death.

"Yeah," Morgan said, "I guess I had. I warned him about going to war, but he wouldn't listen. Instead he left me behind."

"Probably the best of his most recent decisions, seeing how you ended up saving what was left of his crew."

King placed the gun on the table and pushed it over to Morgan. "Here, take it. Consider it a belated apology, and put it to good use."

Morgan took a skeptic and confused look at the gun. Freshly polished and gleaming in the sunlight, there was no telling that it had recently been involved in a gun-fight, nor that its previous owner had been killed during that encounter. How the hell had King managed to get a hold on it? According to Darnell, Rooch's body had been left behind at the docks, and when they had left the cops had been closing in already. There was no way another Vice King would have had the time to go there and pick it up before SWPD locked the scene down. Which meant that Benjamin King had a pretty long reach or gone through a lot of trouble in order to make this casual present to Morgan. He wondered what warranted him getting this kind of attention from the leader of the Vice Kings.

Picking up the gun with both hands, he pulled it into his lap. He looked at it for a couple of seconds, then muttered an awkward thanks for the present. He was utterly out of his depth, and had no idea how to react. King did not seem to mind.

"You earned it son," he replied, closing his desk drawer. "The scene at the docks is being handled, so you don't have to worry about that. But we're done pushing into the Row, at least for now, you feel me? Warren is going to find something else for that crew of yours to do."

He turned to Darnell. "I want you to take over. They tell me you've pretty much done so already, so I expect this shouldn't be a problem. Rebuild that crew, understood?"

Darnell trembled with nodding. "Ya can count on'id, boss."

"Good, you can go. No Morgan, not you. You stay."

Morgan and Darnell both froze for a second time. Darnell had risen from his chair and — assuming he was meant as well — Morgan had done the same. Now they exchanged a puzzled look, but where Morgan's surprisal was absolute, he thought he recognized something else in Darnell's eyes. It might have been fear or worry, or just tenseness, but if Morgan had been forced to choose, his money would have been on irritation. Either that or outright jealousy. In any case, it wasn't good.

"I'll see you back at the towers," Morgan said, trying to sound casual and lighthearted. He hoped it would dampen whatever Darnell's issue was somewhat, but if it worked, it did so without any visible change in demeanor. Darnell sniffed and pinched his nose, his eyes narrowed to suspicious slits.

"Yeah, sure," he mumbled. "Later, pal."

He turned around and left. Muffled footsteps on the carpet, followed by a soft click and a bang as the door fell shut. It somehow seemed to contrast awkwardly with the absence of other sounds. Morgan groaned inwardly, and couldn't keep a small sigh from coming over his lips. The gesture was not lost on Benjamin King.

"A lot of history between you two, huh? Take if from one who knows, son. You gotta be careful around these things. Keep an eye out."

"No kidding," Morgan moped. "Not big on gratitude, that one. You'd expect saving his sorry ass would buy me a little more leeway than that."

"He'll be fine. A gangbanger's pride is a fickle thing, but you'll see: By tomorrow morning, he will have realized that he just moved up the ladder, even if it means no longer being able to treat you like some puppy dog belongin' to his ass."

Morgan furrowed his brows. "So you're not sending me back to the projects?"

King shook his head. "No, I am not. You're done there. Starting tomorrow, you report either to me, or Anthony."

Surprise. Exhilaration. Panic. Doubt. Fear. Morgan felt it all. A myriad of emotions blending and blurring through and into one another. It was emotional chaos, and Morgan was merely along for the ride. He acted instinctively, latching on to one random thread in the tangle of thoughts, holding on tight while allowing the rest of them to sink into the borderlands between conscious- and unconsciousness.

"He is not going to like it," he blurted out, referring to Anthony. "Last time we spoke, he pretty much said that he wouldn't want somebody like me on his crew."

Immediately, he chided himself for opening his mouth. Benjamin King was offering him a job, and his first reaction to what might have accounted to the opportunity of a lifetime was to point out how he thought it was a bad idea. He really had to work on his self preservation skills.

Luckily for him, King's mind was firmly set in the matter. He gave Morgan a winning smile and chuckled. "Let me worry about Anthony, all right? He will do what I tell him to. Whether he likes it or not is of no concern to me, and it shouldn't be to you either."

Morgan fell quiet for a second, trying to come to terms with that was happening.

"Why me?" he asked eventually. If King was willing to displease his number two, there had to be a reason, no matter how casual King was making it sound. Whether he would let Morgan in on the matter was of course an entirely different story.

"Ain't no big secret, son," King explained patiently. "You just might have what it takes is all. If you don't, you'll be right back in the projects before you know it."

That sounded fair to Morgan's ears. No bullshit, no strings attached. Just a honest-to-God shot to show that he had what it took. At least if King was being straight with him, but Morgan couldn't think of a reason why he should lie. He kept asking anyway.

"And just is it that you think I have in me? What do you expect me to do?"

Benjamin King sighed. His own chair creaked as he shifted his weight to his right side, planting his chin upon his fist in a pondering fashion. "You really don't trust any of his yet, do you?"

Morgan shrugged. "If things seem too good to be true, they usually are in my experience."

"Coming from the projects, I can't even fault you for that kind of reasonin'. Listen, my right hand says you fought like a crazed, half-starved lion and made him look the part. He thinks you're reckless, and a fool. So far, so good. Case closed. But now that very same nigga not only speaks out against risky operations, but ends up savin' a bunch of his crew when their shitty plan gets them into a pinch? What to make of a man like that?"

Morgan thought long and hard about the answer to a question like that. It was weird to look at himself like that. He knew perfectly well what had driven him in those moments. Against Big Tony, he had merely given his all, trying to prove to the Vice Kings and himself what he was capable of. At the docks, he hadn't really thought at all. He had just tried to save people.

That, however, was not what King was asking. He was asking Morgan to put himself in the shoes of some uninvolved spectator who didn't know the intricate details of Morgan's inner thoughts and feelings. What would his actions look like to such a person? King obviously was hinting at something specific, but the possibilities were practically endless, and caused Morgan's head to spin. Eventually, he chose what seemed the most obvious to him.

"Sounds to me like a man who fights like hell if he was to, but tries to avoid it if there is a better way?"

King's face lit up, and a deep, good-natured chuckle came over his lips. "Exactly, son. I had a feeling I would like you."

Morgan blinked. A part of him was happy for apparently getting it right, but at the same time, he couldn't have been more confused even if he tried.

"The Vice Kings are not what they used to be," King went on. "It ain't about drive-bys, respect and showin' the Lopez family where to put it no more. It's business, and that is best conducted quietly and without drawing attention to ourselves. That's what most of the niggas don't get. They're still runnin' around, flashin' guns, actin' hard and fuckin' things up with their goddamn pride."

"Like Rooch," offered Morgan.

King nodded. "Yes. That stunt at the docks cost us a lot and didn't gain us shit, a waste of money and blood."

"So, what exactly do you want me to do? Stop everyone from getting into fights?"

King frowned. "What I want is for people to show some fuckin' sense. I've wasted plenty of fools in my time. Sometimes it cannot be helped, but until such time I want my niggas to chill, you feel me? Now, I cannot babysit every goddamn banger in a yellow shirt, and Anthony cannot handle this by himself, either. That's what I bring you in for. Lend him a hand, and help him set our people straight. If you can manage that, I promise you: We are going to own these streets. You're ready for this?"

Morgan nodded as if in a trance. The gravity of what was happening only began to dawn upon him, but already he could tell that it was huge.

King smiled at him. "All right. Let's get this shit started."


	7. Chapter 7 - Business as Usual

**Disclaimer:** So, as you can see, I have not yet abandoned Morgan and the Vice Kings. Sadly, it has grown a little quite recently around the Third Street Authors. It's nobody's fault; things like that happen in this thing we call life, but I have definitely felt it affecting my motivation to type up what I have scribbled onto several spirals. Makes the entire process feel more isolated than a writing project already is by default. So, if you have an invested interest in seeing the story continue, let me know what you think;). It really makes all the difference.

* * *

 **Chapter 7 – Business as Usual**

* * *

 **W** eeks passed. As Morgan had predicted, Big Tony regarded him somewhat skeptical when King first broke the news to him that Morgan would lent him a hand. But as King had anticipated, Tony swallowed his reservations like a professional and put Morgan straight to work. At first, it was pretty much like an internship, with Morgan merely tailing Anthony, observing and shaking hands when Tony decided to make an introduction. Judging by the cool reception he was receiving, Morgan was thankful for this kind of approach. The different crews moved carefully around him, on the outside just as polite and respectful as they acted towards Anthony, and yet always leaving the impression of well-trained dogs eager to turn into rabid wolves the moment nobody was looking.

The Vice King's operations turned out to be massive undertaking, spanning dozens of crews in almost the same number of districts. Morgan got to meet all of them, even those working under Tony's woman Tanya and Warren Williams, King's numbers guy. Tanya continued to give him the creeps, constantly eyeing him with that smug smile that made him feel like fresh meat, while Warren turned out to be a condescending, self-important piece of shit that deemed it necessary to point out Morgan's recent arrival and lack of experience at any given opportunity. On particular harsh days, it made Morgan long to be Rooch's punching back again. At least Rooch hadn't tried to hide that he hated Morgan's guts. Fortunately, his run-ins with the high tier lieutenants were few and far between.

Aside from these obvious hick-ups, the arrangement benefited Morgan greatly. After three days, he moved out of the squatter apartment in the projects and into a nice place at the edge of downtown. After seven days, a new car was waiting for him; a former taxi which one of King's mechanics had pimped the shit out, including hefty body modifications, a few modest technical upgrades and of course a royal yellow paint job. Morgan couldn't really laugh at the intended wittiness of giving him a taxi as his gang car, but it was without a doubt a solid machine and by far the best car he had ever owned.

King's distant patronage also had other, less tangible effects. For one, Morgan's issues with his burned house vanished overnight. The cops stopped bothering him, and the insurance came through faster than Morgan had ever seen it happening. Suddenly, Morgan was flush with cash, and with a place and car being cared for by the Vice Kings, Morgan found himself buying clothes and other stuff in places he wouldn't have dreamt of before.

His social situations had drastically improved as well. With the cover of a well-payed security gig at some place called Kingdom Come Records, Morgan finally found the courage to meet up with his parents and explain what had happened and where he had been. He wasn't proud to lie to them about everything, but he was certain that they wouldn't understand, and thought it more important to put their minds at ease rather than worry his folks unnecessarily with the shady details of his new lifestyle. Whether they truly bought any of it, he didn't know. He had always had problems reading his parents in situations like this.

The more joyous development, however, concerned Sam. Morgan and her really hit it off when he called her one evening, and even though she still maintained adamantly that it wasn't a date when she came over to hang out with him, their get-togethers had become quite a regular part of Morgan's weekly routine that Morgan came to cherish more than he was able to say.

All things considered, life was treating him very well, which was something which was awfully hard for him to come to terms with. Part of him was always expecting to find his car stolen, his place burning, the Vice Kings turning on him, or for Sam to proudly announce her engagement to some religious fundamentalist or white power nut job. That nothing of the sort kept happening pissed him off as much as it relieved him.

As good as things were going for him, the same could not be said for the Vice kings. The Third Street Saints, as Morgan had learned to call them, pulled off hit after hit. Vice Kings were dropped in broad daylight, their businesses interrupted, small obstacles blown up into fully-fledged problems. The Saints clearly meant business, and weren't about to pull their punches. Seeing how they were also causing problems to the other players in the city, Morgan felt it was kind of impressive.

However daring the Saints were though, at the pace they were going, they weren't going to ruin the Vice Kings anytime soon. Their operations were massive, far greater and far more diverse than Morgan had ever imagined. At Anthony's side, he paid visits to operations and crews all over town, talking to all kinds of people and gaining insights into a score of different 'enterprises' that the VKs were involved in. As it turned out, there was little that they didn't have a hand in. Morgan shook hands with pimps and club owners, car boosters and burglars, bookies and arms dealers, dockworkers and even cops. He saw elaborate scams and protection rackets, game riggings and underground fighting matches, smuggling rings and backroom gambling. As it were, the only things Morgan didn't see were outright assassinations, human trafficking, and — strangely enough — drugs.

Especially that last one puzzled Morgan. The other two, he could understand, seeing how they represented the most despicable and vicious end of the criminal spectrum, but of all things, Morgan would have expected the Vice Kings to be all over the drug business. Was it not half of what being in a gang was all about? Yet not once Tony took him to a place that was related to anything hinting at a major drug operation run by the Vice Kings, regardless of whether it concerned manufacturing, storage, or distribution. Theoretically, it might have been possible that such dealings were solely the domain of lieutenants other than Anthony, but Morgan doubted it. It didn't make any sense. Morgan hadn't imagined his sit-in at Two-ton's, nor Rooch's words about slinging on the corners of the Row. Drugs definitely were a part of the Vice Kings' day to day activities. Morgan was just missing a piece of the puzzle.

So when Anthony one morning told Morgan that he had something special to show him, Morgan naturally assumed that — at long last — Big Tony would introduce him to the drug biz. They had taken Tony's yellow Zomkah, driving westbound until they left downtown and entered the suburbs. The sun had just started turning on its full heat by the time they arrived at their destination; a large grocery store just on the edge of Huntersfield.

More accurately, it was a big grocery store in the making. The building itself looked largely completed save for the occasional scaffold still rising up the walls, but the land surrounding the site was still barren and cluttered with the refuse and logistics of its construction. Several trucks and their trailers parked on either side of the store, standing alongside portable toilets, empty cable spools, barrels and spare sewer pipes, and their tracks that had churned up the ground curving around heaps of bricks and sand and unused gravel.

Two Vice Kings opened the wire fence for them and Anthony steered the car slowly onto the premise. It was only then that Morgan took notice of the store's name tag, placed above the boarded up front in big silver letters upon concrete and a single stripe of yellow paint.

"King's Grocery," he read out loud, frowning. "Jesus, King is taking the whole name-theme thing a little too serious, don't you think?"

Anthony chuckled. "That's still Mr. King for ya," he chided, "but yeah, maybe. Always said he would, though. Even back in Sunnyvale, when it all started out, he said that one day the whole goddamn city would know his name. Guess he ain't given up on that one yet."

The affection in Anthony's voice gave Morgan a brief pause. He knew of course that Anthony and Benjamin King were close, but the respect and reverence Anthony held for his Boss still managed to surprise him. It was something he was almost envious of.

"How was it?" he asked. "Back in the day I mean?"

The car came to a halt, and Anthony turned off the engine. He made no move to open the door and get out. His hands remained firmly placed on the steering wheel, and he stared blankly ahead.

"Different," he said at last, with a chagrin that Morgan had not expected after the fondness he had just witnessed. Tony was about to continue, but then seemed to think better of it, and shook his head with what looked like regret to Morgan.

"Anyways, that's not why we're here. Come on, I give you the tour."

Morgan followed with a sigh, unable to shake the feeling that he had just missed out on an opportunity.

With the front of the place still boarded up, they moved around back where an already functioning back door was waiting for them. Morgan was especially glad he was wearing sturdy boots, for Anthony's tailored shoes looked soiled to the brink of being ruined by the time they arrived at the entrance. Anthony didn't seem to mind. He could probably afford it.

On the inside, they were greeted by an interior of white tiles and matching wall-work, with small blotches of yellow in the form of shelves, checkout counters and freezer cabinets thrown into the mix. Constructions here were not finished either, but there were much fewer things cluttering the space, and the vibe Morgan was getting was one of emptiness and sterility rather than that of an untidy construction site. They were not the only the Vice Kings on the premise. An entire crew gathered as they entered, nodding respectfully to Anthony and watching Morgan with the by now familiar mixture of loathing and curiosity. With this much security in play, Morgan was even surer about the nature of the place.

"So what am I looking at here," he asked. "Manufacturing or storage?"

Anthony furrowed his brows. "What the fuck are you talkin' about?"

Morgan's mouth froze in an awkward smile, and his eyes traveled back and forth between Anthony and the other Vice Kings, waiting for someone to catch his drift. But the faces that stared back at him were either blank or — as in Big Tony's case — with a tinge of annoyance. For a moment, Morgan managed to sustain the barrage of stares, but it didn't take long for him to reach his limit. He dropped the smile and allowed the confusion he felt to conquer his face.

"The drugs," he explained, slightly irritated. "You said you're giving me the tour. Well, I have seen everything else. It gotta be drugs, right?"

All around him, the gathered Vice Kings began to snigger and chuckle, until a stern glance from Anthony silenced them.

"We don't do drugs, son."

Morgan blinked, confused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that the Vice Kings are not in the drug business. King's call. He made it back in the day after throwin' the Carnalez out of Sunnyvale. Said he didn't clean the streets just so he could poison them himself."

Morgan heard the words, but he still had a hard time believing it. "Like not at all? Zero? nada?"

Tony sighed, covering his eyes with the palm of his hand. "Not in any official capacity, no. Look, maybe some guys are sellin' a little somethin' on the side. Don't know, don't fuckin' care, all right? As far as the gang is concerned, there is no drug operation."

It took Morgan a moment to process all of this. Not only to bring it all together with his preconceived notions of what street gangs did and how they operated, but also with the realities he had experienced at the towers during his initiation. Eventually, he shrugged and filed the information away for later use.

"All right, sorry. What are we here for, then?"

The question revitalized Anthony. He straightened his back and a certain spark flared up in his eyes. He started walking once more, leading Morgan deeper into the grocery store. The rest of the Vice Kings spread out and resumed their guard duty, leaving Morgan to follow after Anthony alone. He was led into the very center of the store, where on yet unfurnished part of the floor, several neatly piled stacks of crates and large military coffers had been placed. Anthony walked over to the closest pile, snatched up one of the coffers, and hauled it onto a plain table that was set up nearby. With practiced movements, his large hands snatched open both latches simultaneously. He waited until Morgan stood beside him, then opened the coffer.

Morgan's eyes went wide. His jaw dropped and he took an involuntary step back. Growing up in the projects, he had been subjected to all kinds of firearms over the years, and normally their mere sight had long ago ceased to have an effect on him. He knew his way around guns, but what Tony had unveiled was not a gun. It was a god-damn rocket launcher. A whole other level of trouble maker. Morgan only knew this kind of firepower from the movies. He was not sure whether he was ready for it. He was not even sure he wanted to be.

"Impressive, ain't it?" Tony asked with a grin, stroking over the smooth dark metal of the weapon. "When shit hits the fan, we gonna be ready for it."

"This is some pretty heavy duty," remarked Morgan. "Where did you get those?"

"I started extendin' our usual arms deals after the scene at the docks. This is just the first shipment. King might still believe that we gonna be able to handle this without havin' to play it rough, but I'm not so sure. Things smell like trouble, ya know what I'm sayin'? Anyways, it's my job to keep the big man safe, and after the Saints blew up our studio, anything goes."

Morgan nodded somewhat hesitantly, mostly because he did not feel like disagreeing with the man with the bazooka. He turned and looked at the rest of the neatly stacked crates and coffers. It looked like Anthony had bought enough hardware to equip a small army. He pointed at one and asked, "They all full of these babies?"

Anthony shook his head. "Some are, others are just more of the regular firepower. I also gonna stash a few of the big ones in my condo, should we ever need one on short notice. Just so you know."

Morgan nodded again. "Looks like you have it all figured out."

"Almost," agreed Tony. "Listen, King doesn't know about these, and until we need them, that's the way it's going to be. But if we need them, and somethin' happened to me, I need you to be the one to tell him. That's the only reason I'm showin' ya all of this. So don't mess this up."

"Wow wow...easy," said Morgan, throwing up his palms. "What are you talking about? Nothing is going to fucking happen to you."

"It's not like I'm plannin' on it, but ya can never know. Do ya have any ideas how many hits we alone put on Hector, the Lopez's enforcer? Status ain't gonna make ya bullet-proof, son. Better remember that."

Morgan was pretty sure he was not about to forget that anytime soon. He nodded eagerly, wanting to get this thing over with.

"So, can I count on ya? I know keepin' King out of the loop sucks, especially when you're new, but it is necessary. See it as a test run for whether I can trust ya black ass or not."

Something about that last statement didn't sit right with Morgan. surely, Tony must have had dozens of guys he trusted and who were more qualified to act on his behalf should things really go south. So why him? Was it because he was expendable to Tony, someone he did not feel responsible for yet and who could easier face King's anger if this got out? After all, Tony had pretty much said that he did not want somebody like Morgan on his crew. Just because he had not given him any shit yet did not mean that this had changed.

He didn't really know what he expected, but he asked anyway. "There is no one else? What about your girl, Tanya?"

Anthony laughed at the idea. "Hell no! Ya'r crazy? I'm not gonna put something like this on her. She's a smart girl, and she handles her hoes like a pro, but guns and skullcrackin' is not her thing. It's gotta be you."

 _Try her_ , Morgan thought to himself, _I think she might surprise you_. He stifled a sigh. What the hell was it about that woman that was giving him the creeps? He had seen her but once, and already he was considering giving her boyfriend insights into who his girlfriend was? _Sure, Morgan, that doesn't sound stupid at all_. All just because of one odd look. Since when did he start acting like a scared little bunny rabbit?

Realizing that Tony was still expecting a reaction, Morgan took another look at the weapon cache. He wasn't really comfortable with this, but the point was mute. He need Anthony and his support. Rejecting him now wasn't an option. So he told him that he had understood.

Anthony looked pleased. "Thanks, I appreciate it," he said, smiling. "With that being settled, I have somethin' else to show ya."

Putting two fingers into his mouth, Anthony turned aside whistled. A moment later, a Vice King came shuffling around one of the store shelves, carrying in his hands what looked like a paper box. Morgan furrowed his brows, then said, "Please don't tell me you have something worse than those RPGs."

Anthony chuckled. Somehow, seeing his shoulders rise and fall like that only made him look more daunting and powerful. He waited until his man placed the box upon the table and retired, then he opened it, pulled out a folder, and offered it to Morgan.

"Depends on your definitions of worse."

Morgan took the file and flipped it open. His eyes darted over the papers and he needed a moment until he realized what he held in his hands.

"These are police files," he said. "On the Saints!"

"Indeed they are," said Anthony with a smirk. "If them fools keep comin' at us, I thought we ought to know who we're dealin' with."

"Where did you get those?" Already, Morgan felt stupid for asking the same thing twice.

Anthony's smile turned wicked. "Let's just say King has made some powerful friends since we rose from the streets. He's not the boss for nothin'."

Morgan kept starring at the file he was holding. He had never been naive enough to believe that the cops were beyond corruption, but there was a different between bribing some beat cop to look the other way every once in a while and getting an entire box of sensitive files, not to mention the cops that appeared to be part of some of the Vice Kings' operations or the fact how Morgan's own trouble with the 5-O had just vanished after King took him under his wing.

"Which one you got?" Tony asked, interrupting Morgan's thoughts on the matter. Morgan flipped back to the first page. His face darkened. "Johnny Gat," he growled, starring balefully at the mug-shot showing a smug smile and white-tipped spiky hair. It was the face of the one who had killed Zach.

If Anthony saw the smoldering hate enter Morgan's eyes, he did not comment on it, rummaging as he was through the box of files. "So what's that dude's deal?"

Morgan did not answer straight away. Flipping through the pages, trying to make sense of them and scanning for information relevant to their particular needs, it took him a minute to come up with a reply.

"Looks like he always had a thing for sticking his nose into the business of people more sensible folks know to stay away from. Jesus, this guy actually made a living killing and robbing other gangsters! It says here he usually works alone, though."

Anthony frowned. "Well, we know that's no longer true, ain't it? Is that the one who caused us all that trouble?"

Morgan nodded. Tony was not surprised. "Thought so," he said. "Hopefully, the Saints do not have many people of his caliber. Still, sounds like a cocky little son of a bitch. Usually, shankerz like that don't last very long, especially when they're alone. Sooner or later, some nigga lookin' for payback always gets the drop on them."

"Apparently, the entire neighborhood watched out for him. You know, sheltering him and not telling those after him where he was at. Didn't need a lot of cash by the looks of it. Gave most of it way. Some psycho Robin Hood shit."

"And you ain't never heard of the guy?" Tony asked.

"No, never. I heard once or twice about some pimps or drug dealers who were found beaten or dead, but I never heard anything about the guy who did it. Never even thought any of those were connected. Then again, at the time I was trying to make a wide birth about things like that."

Anthony humphed thoughtfully, then chuckled and shook his head as if reacting to a joke that only he had heard. He dumped two files back into the box and rested both his hands on the table. "What else?"

Morgan glanced at the file once more. "Not much. Born in China Town. Parents dead. Relatives unknown. Makes the guy sound like a ghost."

"A ghost?" Anthony asked. "No, not yet. If he keeps commin' after us though, he will be."

It was a sentiment Morgan could very much share. "But I don't think he is the head of it all. Too much of a loner for that. Probably too impulsive or vindictive, too. You got anyone in there who would qualify as the brains of their operation?"

To Morgan's surprise, Tony laughed at that question. "Ain't need a file for that," he said ominously.

One of Morgan's eyebrows rose quizzically in response to that. "Come again?"

"Word on the street is that the Saints hang out in the old church on the Row, and that they're led by one Julius Little."

"Never heard of him."

"Doesn't surprise me. He has kind of fallen of the face of the earth for a while. I know him though, and so does King. He used to run with us back in the day."

That story sounded kind of familiar to Morgan. Still, he was no less astonished than when Hubert had told him. "He was a fucking Vice King?"

Anthony nodded. "Yes, he was. Good one, too. That was before I made my way to the top. King and him were like brothers in those days."

And now his crew is trying to kill us, thought Morgan. "What happened?"

"Don't really know. He dropped out, just like that, probably couldn't handle the life. King never spoke a word of it, but between you and me, I think he was sad to see him go."

"Maybe they can exchange numbers and meet up for a cup of coffee. You know, once the rest of us are dead and they've run out of bullets."

Anthony frowned at the remark. "Don't get cute with me, nigga. What are you pissed about all of a sudden?"

"You really gotta ask? Those fuckers burned my house down; and now I hear that our boss and theirs used to be best pals or whatever? That sounds too damn troubled not to complicate things. As if the Saints are not causing us enough grief as it is!"

"Take it easy," said Anthony. "King will take care of it. He always does. In fact, he already has a whole new plan and all."

"Yeah, what is it?"

"Not for me to say. The boss will inform ya and the others when it's time. Just relax. Things will get settled soon."

Morgan took a deep breath and sighed. "They better," he said. "All this shit is making me nervous."

Again, Anthony nodded. "You and me both, man. You and me both."

Anthony's phone started to ring. Tony gave a brief grunt, then fumbled for the phone in his pants. The way in which he then cooed a gentle "Hey baby" into the device made it pretty clear who was waiting on the other line. It was Tanya, and that knowledge alone was enough to sent a shiver down Morgan's spine. Tony, meanwhile kept on talking, and asked Tanya what was up. The answer that came back was barely audible to Morgan's ears, and even though he tried, he couldn't make out any particular words. Based on Tony's reaction though, Morgan concluded it was some kind of request.

"Oh babe, I'm sorry I can't. I'm busy, no not later either; ya know I got that thing today, right?" He glanced at Morgan and hesitated. "All right, Yeah, I'll see what I can do. Yeah, later babe.

That was Tanya," he explained. "Looks like there is some kind of trouble over at the Court. I'd love to go and help her out, but I gotta wrap up things here, and afterwards I need to stay with King. So she asked whether I could not sent you around to give her a hand."

Morgan was not thrilled, and it showed. Anthony gave him a sympathetic smile. "Normally, I would say no, but this is my lady we're talkin' about. Plus, it probably wouldn't hurt for ya to make nice with the other crews as well. I'm not gonna force ya to do it — King wanted ya to give me a hand, not be the bitch that sorts out the other lieutenants' problems — but I would consider it a personal favor if ya did this thing for me. So what do ya say, playa?"

Morgan didn't say anything, but a singular thought began to play and repeat itself over and over in his head. Well, Shit...


	8. Chapter 8 - Anthony's Favor

**Disclaimer:** Big thanks to everyone who commented on the last chapter. Every single comment means a lot to me. Keep them coming! A lot of Tanya and a bit of Warren in this one. I am always curious whether people think I managed to write the established characters somewhat believable, so feel free to let me know what you think.

* * *

 **Chapter 8 - Anthony's Favor**

* * *

 **O** f course, Morgan agreed. He did not want to, would have paid actual money to get out of the deal, but even on the off chance that Big Tony would not hold a grudge if he was turned down, Morgan was not about to take that risk. If that meant dealing with the trouble that was Tanya Winters, then that was just how it was going to be.

Morgan arrived at the King's Court within the hour, steering his flashy converted taxi onto the courtyard, mindful of not allowing the bulky custom front and rear bumpers to touch the ground on the uneven tarmac. He stepped out and placed a pair of dark sunglasses upon his eyes. It was a measure less against the sun's glare than it was to keep his eyes safe from scrutiny while he dealt with Tanya. Whatever it was she wanted.

The first unpleasant surprise awaited him before he even made it into the building. The back door was suddenly flung open in an overeager display of force, almost hitting Morgan straight in the face as he was about to reach for the doorknob himself. The man on the other side stared at Morgan with a baffled, almost annoyed expression. By itself, none of these things would have worried Morgan. The only problem was that he recognized who had almost 'bumped' into him.

Warren 'Ezy Money' Williams quickly regained his composure. He straightened up and raised his chin a few inches, his face setting into a cool, controlled expression as he eyed Morgan up and down. One of his hands tugged into the inner lining of his bright yellow suit. The other held on to the doorknob, as if unsure how to proceed.

"Boy, ya should watch where ya'r goin'," he said, slightly annoyed. "Almost knocked ya ass to the ground here."

Really? Morgan thought dryly. Somehow, that supposed fact had avoided him completely. He raised an eyebrow.

With his shaved head, soul patch, and custom tailored suit, Warren could have easily left the same professional impression that Benjamin King did. Yet there was something about Warren that prevented this from happening and turned into something else, something lesser and pretentious. Where Benjamin King asserted his authority naturally, without any conscious effort, with Warren it was all tension, ego and hostility. He clearly coveted the same kind of respect that King inspired in those around him, but he simply lacked the strength of personality to truly earn it. He probably knew of his own lacking in that regard, too, for he appeared to be constantly on the look-out for any slight or insult to his person. It reminded Morgan of a bitchy small dog, always on edge and barking at everything that moved, no matter whether something proved an actual threat or not.

With Warren's statement still standing between them, Morgan decided to back up a step. Fighting to keep his chagrin at bay, he forced a smile and raised his hands defensively.

"Sorry, Mr Williams," he heard himself say. "Wasn't expecting to run into you of all people here."

"Oh, it's you; Morgan, right? Big Tony's new valet." He laughed at his own emphasis of the words. The fact that he had snapped at Morgan before so much as taking a second to look at him spoke volumes.

Warren looked back into the former hotel he had just exited. A sleazy smile crept onto his face. "Well, a man has needs, ya know?" He nudged Morgan with his elbow. "But she didn't take my money, if ya catch my drift."

Morgan did his best not to catch that drift. What Warren Williams was doing at the Vice King's brothel was entirely his business. Morgan did not want to think about it, in fact the entire situation was making his skin crawl, and he did not know how to respond other than keeping his smile in place and hoping that Warren would provide a meaning to it that suited him. He was lucky. Warren did not disappoint. He chuckled, mumbling to himself, then rearranged his tie and smoothed over the folds of his suit.

"Yeah, that's how it is when ya get to the top. Keep at it, my nigga. Surely, one of these days King will consider throwin' you a bone. Or maybe ya should stick with me. I could teach ya a thing or two, how to be your own man, to do your own thing, and take shit from no one. Ya don't want to end up like good old Anthony, do ya? No vision, no ambition, livin' of scraps like a loyal pooch? It's fuckin' embarrassing, let me tell ya!"

Almost as an afterthought, he added. "Don't tell him I said so, though. Where is the big fellow, anyway? I thought King wanted ya to be like his shadow or somethin'."

"He did," Morgan confirmed. For a second, he pondered just how much to tell Warren about what Anthony was up to, but seeing how he himself knew practically nothing, he decided to keep it as vague as possible. "He's busy. I'm here because he sent me over. Something about lending Tanya a hand with something."

That got Warren's attention. His brows surged up, just as the rest of his face lit up in surprise. "Tanya, eh?" he asked, throwing an ominous glance over his shoulder. He seemed angry. "That woman is something else. High maintenance, though, I'd wager. Probably takes a lot to keep her satisfied, don'tcha think?"

Something about the way Warren said this seemed off to Morgan. Then again, everything about Warren Williams seemed a little off to him.

"Anthony appears to manage somehow," he said.

Warren ate that one up like a piece of candy, totally mistaking Morgan's intentions. His face lit up. His good humor returned, and then he just started laughing. "Oh, ya don't know the half of it. Anyways, tell the lady I said 'hi', okay? If I had known that she needed help with something, I would have offered to pitch in. Might have saved ya a trip."

"That's very kind of you. I'm sure she will appreciate the gesture."

Warren waved him off. "Yeah, yeah," he said. "Just tell her what I said. I'm sure she'll act appropriately. Now move, nigga. I got a music industry to own."

Morgan moved out of the way and Warren finally walked off. He probably considered himself powerful for acting tough like that, but Morgan felt that he had actually gotten off easy. He would have done way more demeaning stuff if Warren had but asked. Not out of respect, but simply to get rid of him. For that luxury, even Morgan was willing to suffer a small amount of indignities, and that was saying something. Ever since that incident at the club, he had developed quite the short fuse when it came to these sort of things. He pushed the thought from his mind, trying to settle down. The time to gloat over the likes of Warren Williams would come, but it was not now. He had survived one unexpected run-in with one of King's lieutenants. Now it was time for the meeting he had been expecting in the first place. Somehow, he doubted it would be much more pleasant.

The inside of the King's court was just as he remembered it. It felt different, though, and not due to the increased security that greeted Morgan as he made his way up to the first floor where Tanya had set up her personal office. With all the heat that the Saints were bringing, it was a more than sensible precaution. No, what changed was not the building, but Morgan himself. Knowing that he was not here for sex and a good time, but on business changed the way he looked at things. What the last time he had been here had seemed glamorous and enticing was now simply a big house owned by a woman that greatly disturbed him. Even the fond memories of Dominique were not able to change that. He kept an eye out for her, though, not wanting to miss the off-chance of running into her while he was here. Unfortunately, she was nowhere to be seen.

He found the door to Tanya's office unlocked and standing slightly ajar. Before conscious thought could factor into his considerations, Morgan found himself peeking in, his eyes drawn by movement that took place within the office. He saw Tanya, or at least her back, standing in front of a huge mirror that was set into the far wall of the room. She was once again clad in her scanty white outfit that left little to the imagination, currently readjusting it and straightening out what little folds she could find before turning her attention to her hair.

Morgan shook his head. Women could be such vain creatures, he thought. Or maybe they had to be, or were turned into such despite the absence of any actual need for it. He did not know. Morgan sure as hell did not frown upon the result. Sometimes, he wondered whether that turned him into some kind of accomplice. Then again, what was a guy supposed to do; rail at a roman for spending too much time on her looks? Yeah, that really sounded like it would make him tons of new friends.

He gave Tanya a couple of more moments to get ready, then knocked on the door frame.

"Come in," Tanya called, and Morgan entered to find her still in front of the mirror, applying fresh lipstick to her lips. Without looking at him she asked, "Back already? Forgot somethin' of yours?"

Morgan blinked. "Huh, excuse me?"

At the sound of his voice, Tanya swirled around, the lipstick in her hand all but forgotten.

"Oh, it's you!" She said. A smile crept onto her face. "Sorry, for a second there I thought you'd be Warren."

"Warren? Wait, why would he — "

He did not finish that thought. He was not stupid, and as his mind pieced together what Tanya was saying alongside his earlier encounter with Warren, part of him knew instinctually that it was better not to voice anything in regard to the conclusion he was arriving at.

Tanya's smile widened. "Oh yes, he was just here. Briefly, of course, you know how busy he is, but he still always finds the time to come around. He is such a big help."

Morgan's tongue felt leaden his mouth all of a sudden. "Yeah. I ran into him just outside. Told me to say hi and that he would have loved to help you out. He seemed...surprised to see me here."

Tanya simply laughed the conflicting accounts off. "Oh, that's our Warren for you. He can be such a smartass at times." She mock-slapped the air as if barely able to contain another fit of laughter. "But it is surprising to see you here. A pleasant surprise to be sure, but still. Is Anthony coming too?"

Morgan shook his head. He was not buying her story for a second. "I am afraid he is too busy. He asked me instead to give you a hand. So what's up?"

If Tanya noticed Morgan's suspicions, she gave no sign of it. Instead, she put her hands to her hips and sighed. Morgan tried to ignore how much that put her breasts on display.

"That's so typical," she said. "King always drowns him in so much work, he almost never has time to me." She curled her lips into a girlish pout, then smiled again. "Ah well, at least I can look forward to spendin' some quality time with you instead. According to what I hear, you're one who appreciates women, ain't that right?"

Morgan blinked. The words might have seemed innocently enough, but they hinted at something he would have rather forgotten about. It touched something within him, and struck a note that resonated with a profound sense of shame. The thought that Dominique might have talked to someone like Tanya about the night they spent together cut deep, too.

"Says who?" he asked, trying to keep his voice even and casual.

Tanya was definitely enjoying herself at this point. Her face was awash with enjoyment. "Oh, you know. Girls talk and all. She was unusually reluctant, at first, now that I think of it. I guess she must have really treasured her time with you." Tanya stepped closer towards him, and her voice dropped to a sultry whisper as she looked at him with her deep brown eyes. "I can see why."

What kind of game was she playing? Morgan felt like control over the situation was slipping further and further away from him with each word that came out of Tanya's mouth. She was dominating the conversation, both verbally and physically. Morgan responded the only way he knew how: by trying to wrestle control over the situation away from her.

He moved fast, almost pouncing forward and closing what little distance still separated him from Tanya. His face twitched with anger as he leaned down, pointing at her with his end just inches away from her eyes and close to her throat. "Listen, I don't know what kind of sick game you are playing, but it stops right here! You understand me?"

Tanya chuckled. Her eyes sparkled at him with excitement. She moaned. "Oh, I love it when men assert themselves like that. You want me to stop, baby? But what if I don't?" She licked her lips. "You wanna get rough with me? Go ahead. I can take it. I'm sure I've had worse. It's just — what would Anthony say?"

The words stopped Morgan dead in his tracks.

"What would he say?" Tanya repeated. She still had not moved away from him. "About you hittin' his girl, his little lovely girl that loves him sooo much?"

"Yeah right," Morgan sneered. "Loving him? Is that why I get the impression that you have just finished cozying up to Warren?"

"Is that what you're goin' to tell him?" Tanya beamed, and shook her head in what looked like pity. "You think he'll listen to you, when all he can think about is crushin' the man who laid hands on me? Come on, Morgan. You're smarter than that. You only would end up fightin' again, and all that just because of little me. Not that I would mind, but is that really what you want?"

Morgan stepped back. What was left of his anger evaporated into helplessness. Tanya had clearly lost it.

Tanya shuddered with another chuckle when Morgan backed away from her. She tilted her head to one side, and pushed her hips the other way, putting her body on full display for him. Then she followed him with slow, teasing steps.

"I can keep a secret, though," she whispered. "He wouldn't need to know, not about any of it. You could do whatever you wanted with me. Surely there is somethin' you'd rather do than gettin' rough with me?"

"You're crazy."

"If it's crazy to go after the things you want, then I guess I am. Come on, Morgan! Don't look so shocked. I've seen the way you looked at me, and I know that look well."

It was true. For Morgan, as well as approximately 99% of the male heterosexual population that had ever laid eyes on Tanya. Morgan wanted to deny it, but a part of him was definitely excited by Tanya and her offer. A part of him did want her, and that part did not care about things like loyalty and faithfulness. All that part of wanted was to grab that woman and fuck her with wanton passion and abandon.

Fortunately, Morgan's personality consisted of more than the urge to copulate and fuck everything he could bent over the nearest table. It did take some effort to tear himself loose from the vision that Tanya was, but he did. Spinning on his heel, he turned and headed for the door. No sense of false pride about fleeing from a woman was able to hold him at this point.

Tanya called out, but Morgan ignored her. He walked on, not running, but certainly hurrying down the corridor, down the stairs, through the lobby and finally out the side entrance. Every ten feet, he threw a haunted glance over his shoulder, fearing each time that he would see Tanya coming after him. She did not.

Stepping out into the sunlight, Morgan released a breath he had not even realized he was holding. The gasp was accompanied by an almost palpable sense of relief. He took another glance at the closed door behind him, then took a deep, long breath. He knew that his trouble with this mess was just beginning. The things he had just learned about Tanya — and Warren for that matter — were a time bomb capable of crippling the upper echelon of the Vice Kings' leadership.

That he — some new blood with little pull and few allies within the gang now held one of the detonators was a concerning thought He harbored no illusions about being able to utilize this information to his advantage. All he had done was make himself a target. Neither Tanya nor Warren would allow him to threaten their position within the gang. But Tanya was right: There was no reason why anyone would believe him at this point. Maybe a certain safety lay in that, at least if Tanya and Warren could not be bothered to act on something unlikely to be able to touch them. If they decided to do so anyway, he was doomed, for even if people believed him, it did not mean that King would choose truth over his lieutenants in the matter. Usefulness usually outweighed moral integrity within most criminal organizations. Or so Morgan figured.

He had almost gotten back to his car when his phone rang in his pocket. It was an unknown number. Morgan stared at it for a moment. A dark sense of foreboding came over him. He answered and pressed it to his ear.

"That wasn't very nice."

Tanya's voice had been purged of all sexy playfulness. There was a coldness to it now, and a calculating sharpness that transported a definite sense of mercilessness. Morgan gulped involuntarily, and a shiver ran down his spine. This woman really scared him, which was all the more reason he refused to back down.

"You want to talk about nice?" he shot back. "You've got some nerve."

"I do. I also do not take well to bein' blown off. It's really too bad. We could have been great together. By the way, what do you suppose Anthony will say when he hears you stormed off before I could so much as tell you what I needed help with?"

"Oh, I think you made it pretty clear what you had in mind."

Tanya sniggered on the other end of the line. "Maybe, but that's not what Anthony is goin' to hear, unless you want to force it, and you know that's not goin' to end well for you."

He hated it when that woman was right. Unfortunately, sometimes you did not have the luxury of denying the uncomfortable truths that life throws at you. This was one of these moments. The thought was sickening, and it made Morgan feel like a trapped animal, but there was simply no helping it. In the end, he had no choice but to grit his teeth, swallow the bile that was rising from his stomach, and give in to Tanya's blackmail. At least for the time being.

"All right," he conceded. "What is it that you want?"

"That's a good boy," Tanya said. Her playfulness returned, and she was cooing as if she was petting him like a dog. "I need you to kill somebody for me."

"Go to hell."

"Oh, cheer up, honey. You will be fine. It's about the Saints. Well, sort of, anyway."

Morgan tsked. "I am already feeling so much better."

Tanya ignored his snide remark and went on. "There is this woman, Nicky. She runs a brothel near the waterfront. Used to be quite the competition before I started runnin' things on our side. Pushed her pretty hard, flew in some people from out of town to steal her girls and take away her business. Given a couple of more weeks, she would have been done for, but now she has joined up with one of her cousins, some pimp going by the name of Will. He's rollin' with the Saints, and now they are messin' up my boys and helpin' her get back on her feet. That's bad for our business. Hurt her, hurt the Saints. Straightforward enough, isn't it?"

"You want me to kill a woman simply because she is posing a little bit of competition?"

"Don't act so shocked, honey," she said. "Nobody likes a criminal with a conscience. This needs to get done, so either you do it, or Anthony will hear that you left his poor poor baby to deal with it on her own. You really should see how he gets once I start crying. Like a big bald chocolate knight."

She laughed.

"I call you when it's done," said Morgan. He hang up immediately, but the sound of her laughter kept ringing in his ears, mocking him. He would have loved to refuse her, but he was caught up in the net that she had spun for him. Despite all his proclamations, he was feeling utterly helpless again. He should have been angry, and maybe he was, but all he felt was the dull, throbbing ache of complete impotence. He lowered his head and sighed, his breath heavy with the crushing despair and disappointment that he experienced in that moment. A moment of defeat. Tanya had definitely won this one. Worse: She knew she had.


End file.
